


Blindspot

by jeanjosten



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Americana, Blind Character, Blind!Neil, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Demon Deals, Demonic Possession, Demons, Denial of Feelings, Exorcisms, Exorcist!Andrew, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Internal Conflict, Loss of Faith, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mutual Pining, NEW TUMBLR IS @WNDG, Philosophical Discussions, Possession, Priest!Andrew, Protectiveness, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Religion, Small Towns, Southern Gothic, Strangers to Lovers, Supernatural Elements, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, no exy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanjosten/pseuds/jeanjosten
Summary: In Bono, Alabama, a southern town where nobody ever goes, Neil Josten is a blind boy who used to read and write stories. Now he tells them aloud for his friend to write down, but things are quick to turn bland where there’s no color to see. He finds comfort in religion, thinking God can give him his eyes.Then Andrew Minyard arrives in town in a dusty Impala and a crumpled suit, claiming he’s there to help Renee Walker take care of the church after the local priest’s death. Everyone soon starts wondering what his motives are and why he’d exile himself to a dead-end like theirs, mistrusting every word—but they’re after the wrong threat. Disillusioned and disappointed by religion, this lonely man of God came for a greater mission than preaching and blessing. He’s after something, and he might have just found it.The blind boy of the town will either be his salvation or damnation, and he’s not sure which one yet.





	1. the devil’s backbone

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my self-indulgent southern gothic au. here’s a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1157367950/playlist/4azlnMMyK6dDgpxJgLofc8?si=99JVyHA5T3O8plekHPNgYw), here’s [a board](https://www.pinterest.fr/oxymorts/dont-take-that-sinner-from-me/), and I’m on [Tumblr](https://innersystem.tumblr.com)
> 
> fancast: [neil](https://www.pinterest.fr/pin/607774912184956180/), [andrew](https://www.pinterest.fr/pin/570479477791872420/), [kevin](https://www.pinterest.fr/pin/289848926008100763/), [renee](https://www.pinterest.fr/pin/289848926012584139/)

There’s blood. Lots of it.

He’s dreamed it before, he knows it. Perhaps in a desperate attempt to sidestep the fatality of what is coming, Andrew looks up at the ceiling and closes his eyes.

“Come on, you cocksucker, are you giving up yet?” a voice taunts from the darkness. The thing looks like his brother, but it’s not, and he’s not sure what it is.

He snaps his eyes open and sits on the chair, creaking loudly under his weight. “I’m not a quitter. You should know that.” Andrew stares at those amber eyes a little too long and finds nothing there—then anxiously looks away, wondering who he’s really talking to, and if Aaron is ever going to come back to him.

He thinks, probably not.

Something tightens in his chest and he gets the urge to break something.

“Aw,” the thing says, shoulders dropping in false sympathy from where it’s sitting on the mattress. “Getting emotional, aren’t you? Think your little brother isn’t strong enough?”  


The voice is slow, poured like honey—no, like poison, but the thing’s face scrunches up in an aggressive motion, like it can’t hold back the spasms of violence throbbing in his limbs. Andrew watches it happen, quiet, searching for recognition on his brother’s face. There is none.  


He knows it’s over. He has known all along.  


“It’s not strength or weakness if you shut him out.”  


“Wanna talk to him?” the voice sneers.  


Andrew knows he shouldn’t look up but he does, and interest shows on his face before he can even mask it. The thing chuckles low, the sound of it getting lost in its throat like a far-off echo in reverse. He’s betrayed himself by showing he cares, yet how could he not when it’s Aaron sitting there?  


But Aaron is gone.  


“Gotcha,” the voice chuckles. It’s so vicious and malevolent Andrew’s fists shake with the need to choke it to silence. He doesn’t know how to kill it without killing Aaron. “You’re gonna have to wait on this one. He is temporarily unavailable.”  


The pause is heavy and Andrew senses it coming before it comes out of its mouth:  


“In fact, he doesn’t want to see you.” Andrew closes his eyes. Not to get away, but to focus; to stay on the narrow path of the sane and the right-minded. “Little boy Aaron always got chosen last, hasn’t he? It was about fucking time to become the center of attention. He’s loving it,” it says, shaking its head around on the last few words. “Wanna know what your precious brother thinks of you?”  


Andrew doesn’t reply, but it’s not like it was a question. It’s trying to get to him—and it’s working.  


“He wishes you were never born.”  


It hurts more than it should have, and perhaps is it because he’s starting to doubt. He can’t tell what’s right from what’s wrong, he can’t decipher the lies from the truth. Everything blurs out in a thick haze and he’s lost his way.  


His fingers curl around his rosary.  


“Poor Andrew killed mommy on the way out.” The laughter that follows is evil. “And father despised you both for that didn’t he? It’s all your fucking fault, Andrew.” The thing pauses, pearls of sweat rolling down its forehead. He used to wipe them off in the beginning, but he’s covered in sweat and blood and it feels too vain now.  


He feels anger pulsing in his veins, dangerous. He feels it coming closer every second. He’s always had that violent streak, he knows, but he keeps telling himself it’s not Aaron, it’s not Aaron talking, it’s not Aaron’s words.  


Aaron would never say that.  


And then he doubts again, and turns away, guts so sick he thinks he might dry-heave on the dusty parquet.  


“And you let that motherfucker beat him to death every night. Didn’t you? You could hear it, I know you did. The ways his head hit the walls as your father slammed it against them, the way he slowly tightened his grip around his throat as he told him how fucking miserable you both were.”  


It’s not true, Andrew knows. Their father did hurt them, them both—and he seemed to hurt Aaron more often than not. But each time Andrew was there, pulling him out of his fierce hands and fighting until it would stop.  


He thinks that’s what he did, at least, but then the demon’s in his head and he starts remembering souvenirs that never happened. Each word is a memory to times he never lived, and he feels overwhelmed by how plausible they all are, painted in bland colors and tired smiles.  


Andrew starts wondering which of the two are the truth. It gets harder to tell by the minute.  


“He wants you gone, you piece of shit!” the thing spits out.  


“Shut up,” Andrew mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut as he shakes.  


“He wants your blood on his white little palms, to lick it as you bleed out on the ground.”  


“Shut up!” he yells, standing up. “Shut the fuck up!”  


The thing complies, slowly sitting back into the mattress, but the calm smile that curves Aaron’s lips is even more nauseating.  


It’s later in the night when Andrew wakes up in a jolt, gripping the armrests of the seat he’s in. He can hear it now, piercing through the haze of exhaustion and far-off colorless dreams: Aaron’s cries. He had thought they were in his nightmares, first, but something knocked hard against the wall and brought him back to reality. Now he’s looking around in terror, face drenched in sweat and muscles tense, rushing to the stairs and up to the room Aaron is locked in.  


And when he opens the door, Aaron’s neck is rotating to the left, ever so slowly, pulling on muscles and crunching bones as it does.  


Aaron’s face is frozen with excruciating hurt, and he wishes he could tell him things, knowing he’s there to listen—but there’s no time. The more he fights back, the more it hurts, and Andrew rushes to grab the Bible on the wooden chair; but he can’t tear his eyes off Aaron long enough to open a page and read the lines.  


“Stop fighting back!” he yells, throat tight where his collar’s choking him. “Aaron, let go now!”  


He watches Aaron’s eyes tear up in pain but the motion doesn’t stop, and then Aaron’s screaming, begging for help, begging for relief, and Andrew can only watch in panic, brows twisted as he tries to contain the horror.  


“Let go!” he pleads, but when Aaron finally relaxes, bones crack in a sickening sound.  


And then there’s nothing.  


Not a sound, not a move; Aaron’s body sprawled against the mattress where it fell, unmoving, empty. Andrew brings a hand to his hair and pulls, waiting, waiting, but Aaron isn’t getting up again. His neck is stuck in an improbable angle and it’s hard to look, but Andrew forces himself, forces himself to bring the violence of realization upon him.  


He needs certainty. He needs to not leave any room for doubt, because doubt will kill him.  


He searches Aaron’s eyes, waiting for them to light up again, but Aaron’s gone.  


He’s gone.


	2. the preacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support it’s amazing. I’m on [tumblr](https://innersystem.tumblr.com).

The road to Bono is long and tiresome, but Andrew only stops at gas stations for regular tank fills and a little beverage. What he lacks in haste he compensates with determination, and then he’s working up the dust down Bono’s main road. There isn’t much to see, and there isn’t much be seen by. If anything, it looks like a ghost town nobody ever visits—shops permanently closed, abandoned warehouses, broken cars left on the side of the road.

He parks his old Impala along the street and lazily gets out, dragging his feet to the sidewalk as though already wanting to leave. This place is an unwelcoming place, filled with silence and empty stares and walking ghosts. He only adds to the mess himself, he knows, with his hollow eyes and his cold manners and a bottle of tequila in his left hand.

Andrew takes the bottle to his lips and then stops. Suddenly thirst turns into disgust, and he hesitates a minute before turning the bottle upside down and pouring its content on the dusty ground. The red soil turns brown and he watches in distant contempt. He’s never liked the South very much.

“You shouldn’t waste that,” a voice says. He looks up expecting to find a boy looking at him, but he’s looking through him instead. “We’ve had troubles with the water mills before.”

He stands there, unhelpful, until the boy eventually chuckles.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me your name.”

Andrew finally huffs. “How do you know I’m a stranger?” It sounds like he’s offended, but he might as well be an old child of Bono for all he knows. Though he doubts the people who leave this town ever come back.

The boy’s lips tighten in a confident smile and then curve. He looks so young, so innocent; it’s almost nauseating. Andrew allows himself a glance at his eyes, but they’re empty and lost like they don’t know where to rest. “You’re not a stranger.”

Andrew’s brows knot and he tenses. He’s spent too much time being wary of everyone to let a nameless kid take such risks, but the boy speaks up before he can ask who the fuck he is, tone light and harmless like Andrew figures it always is.

“My mother used to tell me there’s no such thing as strangers, because nobody really ever knows anyone. She thinks we’re all strangers by default and that there’s nothing we can do about it.”

He gives it a second. “Your mother sounds wiser than you.”

“She probably is,” he admits, though he sounds as though it might be a dangerous thing to say.

There’s a short pause and Andrew looks down at his bottle. He’s not going to tell the kid it was day-drunk tequila, but then again, he probably knows it. This boy looks like he knows all the answers to his questions already, and it’s getting on his nerves. He cherishes his secrets way too much.

The boy looks up to the sky and Andrew’s gaze lingers on the red curls that seem a little too long. They brush against his shoulders when he moves, he notices, and his skin is almost as red ochre as his hair. He looks tan and dusty, and he looks lost.

He looks like a kid left under the sun and forgotten there.

Andrew turns, uninterested in pursuing the conversation any longer, but the boy calls for him again at the last moment.

“Who are you looking for?”

“No one,” he says as he glances above his shoulder. He knows the boy can’t see him, so he stares at his face for a minute. It’s rude, and uncalled for, and the boy can probably feel the weight of it, but Andrew doesn’t care.

“The good thing about losing my sight is that I pay way more attention to what people say,” he snickers. “I realized how often people lied when I started really listening. Why are you here?”

The curiosity is mundane, but Andrew tenses in a second. “This might be none of your business, kid.”

“I’m not a kid, you know.”

Andrew snorts. He must be years younger, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the boy was still a teenager. He sure looks like one.

“And I’m not a priest,” he deadpans.

The boy frowns a moment, pondering on whether it’s a joke or a given truth. “So you’re the new priest?” he asks, finally.

Andrew stays silent and the boy takes it as a yes. It’s not like he’s going to lie about it. News spread fast in small towns like Bono, and soon enough he will stand in front of an entire assistance begging for guidance in the back of an old church.

“Good, good,” he repeats, pensive. “It’s been a while now since anyone has taken care of our church. It’s been lonely around.”

“Or so I heard,” Andrew says. An old friend had called him personally, saying their priest had passed away and they needed help to bring the support Bono’s parish needed. This meant a new priest to hold masses, and a new figure for confused and desperate individuals to follow. It was more responsibility than Andrew wanted, but there was more to it and he couldn’t escape.

He didn’t have the right to be picky on who to save.

“Andrew?” someone calls from behind, and Andrew turns around. It’s Renee, standing there with a soft smile, like she has been waiting for a long time now. “I saw you through the window of the library. It’s good to see you. When did you get here?”

“I just arrived,” he simply says. He keeps his tone cold and his disinterest visible, but Renee seems too used to really take offense. Andrew figures there must be worse around Bono—vulgar old men and sharp-tongued alcoholics.

“What were you doing?”

Andrew peeps behind to point at the kid, but he is long gone. “Who was that?” he asks, distrustful and irritated.

“Who?” Renee says.

He looks around, trying to decide whether he had hallucinated or not. “Nothing,” he settles for. Maybe this town is full of mirages and he dreamed it entirely. He wouldn’t be surprised.

Maybe it’s the heat.

Maybe it’s the tequila.

“Did you enjoy the ride? These are quite the landscapes aren’t they. Great change from Pennsylvania.”

He hums absently, hardly remembering the last few hours. They blur in his mind already, all made of monotonous driving and skipping songs on the radio. He thought he would be content to at least put a foot on the ground and settle after all this time wandering, but he decides he might prefer the lonely road to this dusty town.

“Thank you for coming here. I greatly needed the help.” Andrew nods. “Are you feeling better?”

He looks up at that, eyes chilling with defiance. It’s too soon to talk about it, and, truthfully, Andrew doubts it ever won’t be. Not to Renee, not to anyone. Renee understands, however, and smiles gently as a silent apology: time cannot heal all wounds.

 

 

Andrew’s on the edge of the guest bed, turning his lighter between his fingers. He notices Renee leaning against the open doorframe, but doesn’t acknowledge her.

“Are you done unpacking?” she asks, arms crossed. It’s the morning after, but Renee and him had spent the rest of the day preparing the guest room and cleaning the old church for the overture. They went to bed a little too late, but it doesn’t matter: Andrew hasn’t been able to close his eyes a single second. Sleep had simply, ridiculously ignored him.

Now he kept his eyes open out of habit, looking more than seeing, purple bags digging underneath his eyes. He looked like a ghost of sorts, half-living half-dead, only barely fighting to stay alive.

“We can say that.”

Renee pushes herself off the doorframe. “Are you ready then?”

He hesitates then nods, knowing it has been a while since he had done that. Preached.

The old church of Bono is a pitiful, damaged thing. Andrew thinks it suits the town just fine: miserable and abandoned with its faded white paint and its broken wood, looking just like the desperate religious refuge of a western movie. He’s only half-surprised to see nobody arrive on horseback, shotgun against the shoulder, and watches with distant distaste as Bono’s inhabitants sit in the narrow rows. Then the doors close behind them and the church goes silent, waiting for Andrew to talk.

And he’s not sure he still has something to say.

“Welcome to you all,” he says, then clears his voice and looks around the assistance.

It’s packed and overcrowded, and Andrew wonders how long they have been waiting for a new preacher. Now that he’s here, he can only feel the desperate need for spirituality, how hard they had all entertained the hope of seeing their church full again. Andrew thinks it laughable, for the priest that he is, that he despises the overly religious town more than he does the atheist ones. It’s not a thing to open a mass with, though, so he keeps that to himself and goes on.

“We are all reunited on this day in the home of God to question ourselves and pursue the truth. Today I would like to talk to you about faith. Now if you are here in this church with me, in this very moment, chances are you have found a path to God’s word. But is that enough? How much is enough, and how can we testify our faith?”

He marks a pause, looks at a few faces, all scrunched up in concentration. Then he finds a familiar, young one—the boy he had seen upon arriving, sitting a few rows back on the left side. There’s a tall boy next to him, and he stares in the distance with a calm smile plastered on his face, only guided by his voice.

Andrew forces himself to look away, and clears his throat again. At least he wasn’t crazy yet—unless his demons followed him inside this church too. “The answer is that we cannot. The true struggle we have to face on this Earth is to endure the guilt, the doubt, the confusion of not being given the answers to our questions. Why doesn’t God answer me, you ask. Why doesn’t show me the way if he claims we have to take the right one? This is for us to decide. We always have the choice. God,” he says, “gave us all we need to make those decisions ourselves, but—we will find the way if we find faith. What is faith, other than praying and begging and hoping? It is trust.”

His eyes go back to the blind boy, and he gets distracted for a moment. He wonders how it is to not see when you once did. Then he wonders how the boy didn’t lose his spark, how he could keep going knowing he had been deprived of something precious.

He looks down at his dusty black shoes, finding the answers in his own words. “Faith is the answer to everything. If we trust—if we don’t lose faith—then God will hear you.”

Andrew can’t tell how many times he repeats the words during the mass, but each time he does, they lose a little bit of their meaning. He finds himself embittered when he sends them out of the church at midday, thinking all of this is just a bunch of crap he doesn’t even believe in. They all look content and reassured, ushering outside with soft smiles and distracted chatters, but Andrew can’t help but think they’re naïve. Ignorant. Too gullible to realize their own priest stopped believing.

He walks behind the reading desk to gather his papers and his Bible as Renee shakes people’s hands on their way out, smiling at the compliments they get for the mass, but when Andrew looks up the blind boy is standing right there.

He’s in the aisle, closely followed by the tall boy he had noticed, who doesn’t seem to approve. Approve what, Andrew isn’t sure.

“Hello stranger,” he greets with a smile that’s half politeness half playfulness.

Andrew slips his hands in his trousers’ pockets and looks at him expectantly. The boy must sense it, because he doesn’t waste time waiting for a reply. He knows he has to earn each and every one of them—a man like that doesn’t talk vainly.

“How refreshing, to finally have someone standing on the altar.”

“How long?” Andrew asks, but the boy instantly understands what he means.

“Two months, three perhaps. Renee was too busy taking care of the library and community work to really find a new priest to succeed Father Winston.”

“What happened to him?” he asks again, and he can feel from there how satisfied the boy is. It’s not quite a conversation, but it’s close to it, and he seems content to be the one to answer Andrew’s questions, as disinterested as they might be.

“Heart attack,” he shrugs, dropping his chin, eyes resting vaguely somewhere around Andrew’s shoes. “They said it was quick and inevitable. I suppose even men of God cannot escape time.”

“They can’t,” Andrew agrees. He’s constantly frowning, but it shows in his tone anyway.

“I’m Neil, by the way,” the boy provides without being asked. “People here like to be on a first name basis. I just thought you should know.” It seems like a joke, like Neil’s already figured out how out of place Andrew must feel and how much he’s going to hate being called by his first name. He could as easily tell people not to, but he knows the bond between a parish and its priest must be strong in order to truly work. “What’s yours?”

Andrew hesitates. It doesn’t feel like something he wants to give him, but rumors spread fast and he’s going to know eventually. He could simply ask Renee. There’s no point in hiding anymore, he knows. “Andrew.” He stops there—if he wants a surname, then he’ll have to ask someone else.

Somehow he’s surprised they don’t all already know his full name. Small town news are food for the starved and the hungry, he knows that from experience, and he doubts strangers would have accepted a foreigner into their parish without even asking for his name.

Neil, though, looks so out of everything it’s hard to tell.

“Neil,” the tall boy calls from behind, losing patience. He looks irritated by both having to wait and having to wait for Andrew. Their eyes meet and Andrew frowns, disliking the way he’s looked at. There’s distrust, and annoyance, and as soon as Neil gives him his attention the boy turns away, arm outstretched to the side.

“I guess I gotta go now. It’s been a pleasure. I enjoyed your speech today,” Neil says, but Andrew doesn’t answer, only watching as he walks to the other boy and grabs his arm. They walk out of the church and Andrew absentmindedly dusts the dust off his Bible, searching for answers he isn’t even sure he really needs.

 

 

 

The smell of scrambled eggs come to him like a brutal childhood souvenir from the table he’s sitting at. Renee’s twirling a spatula in the frying pan, pieces of dyed hair falling from her bun as she does. He watches, attentive, picks up on the little things that betray her aging. Last time he had seen her she was only sixteen. Now they’re both twenty-two and it feels like lifetimes have passed, bland and never-ending.

The light is dim in the Renee’s old and comfortable kitchen, but Andrew feels more comfortable in the darkness anyway. There’s nothing piercing through the windows and he figures the moon must be hidden tonight.

“I’ve had many people tell me what they think about you,” Renee smiles as she puts the spatula down and leans her hip against the counter.

“Hm,” Andrew hums.

“They think you are very… peculiar. Strong-minded, determined. They think you will do them good.”

“Do they?” he mocks, but it’s empty.

“It was about time somebody else took care of that. They’re all very thankful.”

Andrew resents how weak-minded people need religion to keep their lives in check, but it’s hypocritical from a man of God and he knows it. He’s supposedly dedicated his entire existence to a God which hardly ever looks down at him, and he feels stupid, knowing he can’t give those people what they desperately need. But at this point, they would take anything, and it shows.

Bono reeks hopelessness and he can only hope not to get infected with it. Andrew, after all, has never done well with despair.

“How did it happen?” Andrew asks without looking up from his coffee up. It’s too dark to see his reflection in, and the bitter aftertaste lingers on his tongue. “The blind boy.”

“A car accident,” Renee says, face dark with compassion. He almost feels guilty for the ease with which her smile disappeared off her face. “The rest, it isn’t a story for me to tell. You should ask him directly. I think it’d do him good to talk it out with you, too.”

Andrew doesn’t budge.

“He used to refuse my help. He didn’t believe in God back then, not like the rest of us do. Isn’t it sad? How people seek refuge in faith after something terrible happens. It so often takes a tragedy for people to search their way out of hurt.”

“This is no tragedy,” Andrew bitterly spits. He meets Renee’s eyes for a minute, then looks away. “This is only an accident.”

Renee nods, trying to accept his point of view even if she disagrees. He knows she would consider anything a tragedy, and perhaps is it the way it is in Bono after all. “How can you tell the difference?”

Andrew’s lips part but he doesn’t reply: images of Aaron’s bloody face flashes before his eyes and he has to close them tight to make them disappear. He slides off his chair before Renee can try to hold him back, and she watches, pain painted all over her face, as Andrew rushes to the stairs to lock himself in his room. He doesn’t come out.

When Andrew leaves Renee’s house the morning after, he finds a crow on the doorstep. He picks it up—but it’s dead, boneless in his hands. He looks around but there is no one around: Renee lives in a middle of a corn field weeping willows and birds as company. He drops the raven into the trash and sits in his car, windows down as he reaches for the cigarettes in his pocket. Instead of coming back with his pack, his hand comes back with his phone, and the date lights up on the screen.

He sighs. Deeply. It’s the anniversary of Aaron’s death today. It’s been three years, and he can still hear his bones crack.

When his car breaks down in the middle of the road he thinks he might be cursed. It’s a good date to be cursed, that’s for sure, but the sun is scorching outside and he doesn’t know what to do. He calls Renee for good measure, because there isn’t much else to do.

“Renee,” he says. The voice answers instantly on the other end. “My car broke down.”

This is all he says, and it’s more than enough. “Oh that’s too bad. Wait, I’ll call the town mechanic for you. He will come and pick you up with your car. Call me when you are there, will you?”

Andrew hums a thank you and checks the time before ending the call. It only takes two minutes for Renee to send a text saying she’s called him and he’s on the road, but it takes thirty more for the huge truck to finally park beside his car. They’re both blocking the way but the road is empty anyway.

They two Andrew’s car and the mechanic gives him a ride to the garage—in silence, conversation prematurely stopped by Andrew’s reluctance to answer his simple questions. He doesn’t do small talk, not even (and especially not) to leave good impressions.

Bono’s garage is as shabby as the rest. Car carcasses are abandoned in every corner and the place is so badly maintained Andrew feels like tidying it up a bit. He roamed around the garage instead, waiting for his car to be repaired. Two trucks are parked inside the garage already, hood open, but he doesn’t recognize the boy bent over one of them until it’s too late.

“Hello, sir, what can I do for—“ and then Neil stops. He’s looking slightly to Andrew’s side but there’s recognition on his face and suddenly visceral politeness washes off his face to leave a friendly smile. “Father Andrew.” He wants to tell him he’s only Andrew—but the words don’t come out.

He frowns, irritated to be so recognizable. “How can you tell if you’re…” he stops, fidgeting. He’s never done that before. He’s never met someone like him.

“Blind?” Neil finishes with an easy grin. People must shy away from the word too many times for him to really take offense; he can’t blame political correctness, it’s in their genes. Andrew comes from another world, though, and he thinks perhaps he will be more inclined to put pity aside for brutal honesty. Andrew doesn’t look like the kind to spare anyone’s feelings for practical reasons anyway.

“Shady people have a certain smell,” he says. He looks serious as he does, and Andrew tenses from head to toe, ready to jump at his throat if needed—but then Neil cracks a smile and Andrew thinks he might abhor the boy more than he does this town. “You don’t look like a priest, you know.”

“You’ve never seen me,” Andrew snapped. It could be rude, but it’s only truth.

Neil nods gently, accepting that. He turns and palpates his way to the door, then leans into the open window to start the ignition. The car roars underneath, hood still tucked open, and Andrew watches the mechanical intestines of its engine.

He bites the question off his lips but he can’t resist. “How do you do that without your eyes?”

Neil doesn’t take offense, equally surprised and satisfied to have earned Andrew’s fleeting interest. “I was a mechanic before I lost my sight. All these things I know by heart and by touch. I could recognize them anywhere. My boss was nice enough to keep me around and give me a chance when I got out of the hospital.”

He doesn’t say it almost saved him, but Andrew hears it still.

“What’s the deal with your car?”

Andrew shrugs. “If I knew I probably wouldn’t be here.”

“Good thing you don’t, then.”

Andrew’s frown deepens slightly and he stares, confused. How this kid can look so innocent and take so many risks is beyond him. He’s a stranger, after all, no matter what his mother says. He feels the need to get away but Neil excuses himself with a smile before he can, wiping his palms on an oil-stained rag. He says he has work to do then walks to where Andrew’s car has been placed, and Andrew looks around, unsure what do do next. It feels like he doesn’t belong here; like he doesn’t belong anywhere.

 

 

“God… God tests us all the time. Why? Not to see if we are strong. Not to see if we deserve to go to heaven at his sides when all of this is done. No. God—wants us to overcome ourselves through hardship, he wants up to get closer to him by getting closer to ourselves. It is through hurt and pain and loss that we finally learn who we truly are, and what we are capable of enduring.” Andrew pauses, looking over the assistance. Aaron’s name tickles the tip of his tongue and he bites it in silence. “We all have gone through grief in one moment of our lives. We all will in the future. And when it happens, we ask ourselves, why? Why would God’s plan involve such a cruel thing? What does he expect us to do with the void our loved ones leave behind?”

An old woman starts sobbing on the third row and Andrew distractedly glances. She buries her face in a washable tissue and the man next to her gently strokes her back. The church’s silence is deafening; Andrew can hear his own heartbeats.

For once, faith or not, he means every word. He cannot lie when it comes to pain.

“You might find it unfair to be left behind, unwanted by God, or abandoned by those you cherished. You might think he was wrong in his design, that those people left too soon. But we all have soon—and God tries to tell us not to be afraid, for we all be reunited at his sides in the end.” He swallows, tries to choke down the far-off sound of Aaron’s last cries. He feels something brush the back of his neck but figures it’s the breeze. “We must rise through hardship. Our time has not come yet. And it is our chance to get better, to learn, to get a little more of this truth we all are after. You will catch once—in fleeting patches, in distant visions, in shivers. This voice that tells you to keep going, to turn this pain into strength.”

He feels a familiar gaze resting approximately on him as he stands before the altar, sweating underneath his black suit; but he neatly avoids it. It isn’t like he could possibly cross his eyes, anyway.

“Something greater is waiting for us,” he says, and then opens his Bible.

By the time the mass is over, half of the assistance has gotten to their feet, repeating Andrew’s words in newfound confidence; and when, finally, he closes his Bible and goes silent, they slowly start clapping. It starts meek and timid, but soon enough gains a row after another and then the entire church drowns under the overwhelming noise of emotion. He isn’t sure what he just has done, and wonders how their former masses must have looked like for them to feel so shaken, but his lips part in surprise and he searches for Renee’s eyes.

She looks back at him, clapping a little slower than the others do, nodding with a smile. Whatever he has just done, they trust him now.

Andrew doesn’t bother being surprised when Neil appears standing in the aisle once everyone is gone. Renee is putting away the Bibles and reading papers in the back, and Andrew reaches for his collar to get it loose. A priest’s clothing isn’t made for summer, he thinks, much less southern towns like Bono.

“Your despicable friend is missing,” Andrew notices. He almost expects Neil to turn around and check, but he only chuckles. It fades away too quickly, however, and Andrew can’t help but pick up on it.

“Jean,” he nods. “He didn’t feel like coming today. Grief is… it’s an ongoing process. He wasn’t ready yet.”

Andrew peeps at Renee, wondering if he should ask more than this. He can’t tell where the respectable lines are. It isn’t quite that he cares about people’s feelings, but the trust he had just built up could explode just as fast, and he doesn’t have the strength to fix such a thing. A man like him, coming from nowhere, knowing no one, adorning a cold frown on his face, isn’t a man most people come to like easily.

Why Neil seems to, he can’t tell.

“Grief never really stops,” he settles for instead. That, at least, he can talk about genuinely. “It goes with us wherever we go until the day we leave in our turn.”

Recognition flashes upon Neil’s face and for a moment he looks like a carbon copy of his own pain-struck self. “You lost someone,” Neil deduces quietly.

Andrew doesn’t give him the answer he wants. He doesn’t need to. Emotion has clouded his speech the entire time, and he did have to look away a few times to gain back some composure. He feels stupid for those wounds which never heal, but then he remembers how broken they all looked, how lonely they all sounded. He doesn’t feel sorry for them—he only feels less pitied.

In a bitter instant he considers Neil might pity him still, but he remembers Renee’s words and chases the thought away. Neil has been pitied his entire life, or the short while of it. He can tell.

He expects Neil to pry and ask who it was, but he doesn’t. “You always feel so hostile and wary. I should have known.”

“Who hasn’t,” he brushes it off instead. “Where are your parents? I didn’t see them around once.” He only asks that because Jean isn’t around this time, and he has no idea how Neil is going to get home on his own.  

Neil hesitates, like he wants to ask something, but eventually he gives a nervous laughter, like he knew this question would come sooner or later. “They are quite the busy type, I would say. Besides, they don’t really have faith,” he shrugs, but Andrew can tell it’s a big deal—not that they don’t believe in God, but that they don’t believe in him, either. He figures Neil opts for loneliness more often than deplorable company.

He too had a questionable upbringing, and he wants to ask, but Renee’s right there, glancing at them with a soft expression as though content to see them both discuss again. Andrew wonders how much he’s told her.

She would get it, of course. But people don’t endure the same and he knows each bruise is different. He’s seen them all on Aaron’s skin, way darker than his own, like his father punched through his soul with each hit. Broken bones never seemed to be enough.

Victims like these are hard to save. He tries to keep the guilt away by reminding himself he was a victim, too, but he doesn’t feel like one. It’s a scam and he’s fooled everyone—himself most.

He walks down the short steps and then down the aisle, not waiting for anyone to follow. Renee has disappeared to the back again, but Neil turns around clumsily, just barely avoiding tripping on his own feet by grabbing the closest bench. He searches for Andrew’s location by the sound of his confident steps, each a little more empty than the other. A ghost in a man’s clothing.

“Where are you going?”

He stops near the open doors, a ray of scorching sunlight burning his cheek as he glances back. “Where do you think?” Neil seems to search for an answer, so Andrew sighs and gives up, voice tired and urgent. “I’m dropping you home, imbecile.”

Neil laughs at the insult, but doesn’t try to reassure. He follows instead, and Andrew only resumes walking when Neil is close behind; enough to know where Andrew’s car is parked. He doesn’t try to grab his arm or direct him: he’s seen the boy evolving in his own little colorless world, creating markers where there were none. He’s adapted, he’s survived; he can do anything.

They drive in the comfortable silence of Andrew’s playlist, an old burned CD full of tacky lonely 80’s tunes. They sound nostalgic in that time of the day, where the sun shines most but nature seems to take over. Nobody out, not even animals; everyone running away from the light to sit on shadowy porches, on creaky swing-chairs and flower-patterned couches. A cat crosses the road and he hits the brakes, anxiously peeping at Neil to make sure he’s alright—but he already has a hand flat across the dashboard and the other gripping at his seatbelt. He really doesn’t need anyone.

He turns where Neil tells him to turn, and Andrew can’t tell how long they have been driving, but they’re so far out of town the church’s cross is hard to find. The landscape is miserable, if not ugly; dried grass and red desert soil, old cars abandoned along the shaky road.

“We’re here,” Neil says.

Andrew frowns but keeps going, searching for a house he can’t seem to find. “We might not be.” It’s a jest but it’s confused, too, because Andrew isn’t going to drop Neil in the middle of nowhere. He starts wondering what they’re doing here, and if Neil really has a home at all.

Neil smiles sadly and Andrew notices a trailer at the end of the road. “Miserable homes have a certain smell.”

Andrew looks around through the rolled down window, searching for a living soul—but there’s no one. Not a functional car parked, not a motorcycle, no one lazily sitting outside the trailer with a hairless dog. It looks like sad décor devoid of its stereotypical content. Something’s missing.

When he catches Neil’s hands fidgeting on his lap, he realizes what he might be thinking.

“I’m not judging you.”

“Of course not,” he huffs as though amused. He’s not and he knows it. “You’re a man of God.”

“Men of God can judge too,” he points out. “Harsher than anyone else.”

Neil stays silent, not knowing how to contradict him.

“Why a trailer?” Andrew asks, but it’s pliant enough that he wouldn’t mind getting no answer.

“My father has never been too preoccupied by money. I can only get so much.”

“There are plenty of good souls in this town who would likely accept to let you in and keep you there. Why didn’t you ask them?” Anything is better than this, he thinks, because he can tell the inside of Neil’s home is uglier than it looks. Not the furniture, not even the plates piling up in the minuscule sink; but what awaits at the end of the day, a dark figure that’s never soft enough.

“I’m better off alone,” Neil assures.

“Your parents aren’t there, are they?” he asks after a long silence. He doesn’t see any trace of a father, much less of a mother.

Neil chuckles humorlessly. “Mom has been hospitalized a while ago. Mental health issues, you know? Everyone thinks she’s crazy.”

“Is she?”

Neil doesn’t answer until a minute later. “I don’t know.” If she is, it’s in his genes, and he thinks he already has too much to endure for now; but things are never fair.

Neil lifts his chin and Andrew catches a glimpse of something achingly familiar. There’s a tiny bruise on the corner of his jaw and, now that he’s seen it, he doesn’t know how he could have missed it all this time. His teeth clench with recognition, and he stares at the shabby trailer to keep his eyes on something.

It’s almost faded, but there’s no way it was an accident.

“Is that your father?”

Neil turns his head his way and his eyes search for something—search for Andrew. They try to pierce through the darkness but there’s nothing. He nods, grim.

“You’re only honest when you hurt,” Andrew notices.

Neil smiles instantly but brushes it off just as fast. “Then what’s the remedy? Hurting more?”

“Lying less,” Andrew deadpans. It’s heavy with too much knowledge, with things he has seen and wishes he could forget. He doesn’t want to be the one to teach Neil how cruel the world can be, how much he’s going to hurt. He thought the kid already knew, but something tells him the worst is coming.

Then Neil offers him a soft smile, clumsy but grateful still, and gets out of the car without a word. Andrew watches until he disappears inside the trailer and looks around, unsure what he’s looking for. He finds nothing anyway.

There’s nothing here. Nothing but regret and loneliness and—he hates it—familiarity. He touches his own jaw where Neil’s bruise was, then cuts the volume of the radio and buries his face into his hand.

Old ghosts never really leave. Whether he’s haunted, or cursed, or simply mad, who can tell.


	3. the heads you win, the tails I lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very short chapter because this binch has long nails and they make typing awfully hard after some time   
> my tumblr is [wndg](http://wndg.tumblr.com) and my aftg sideblog is [exybitch](http://exybitch.tumblr.com/)

Bono looked as miserable and lonely as Andrew had thought it to be. Underdeveloped buildings seemed to flail on their minuscule height, and houses rarely had more than one story, quite literally. It was a sad, sad town where sad, sad people were stuck from the womb to the tomb. Those who had managed to escape, he realized, were all dead now. 

Renee seemed to appreciate the fact that Andrew watched over Neil. He kept insisting he wasn't, but it'd been a week now, and every mass Neil was there, faithful in every way, eyes all over him even though there wasn't much he could see but shadows. Andrew had joked his aura was blacker than most people, to which Neil had said: “around here, everyone's got a black aura.” It wasn't supposed to make him feel better; it was a warning of sorts, like a quiet prayer mourning something he couldn't exactly catch. Maybe this was self-guilt, maybe this wasn't anything. Still Andrew remembered, as he remembered any and every word, especially those he didn't want to linger on—and he turned it upside down at night. It was two days now that this conversation had happened on the steps of Andrew's makeshift church, and he couldn't shake the odd feeling of it.

"Insomnia?" 

Andrew looks up to see Renee standing there, a warm smile on her face and hands on the doorframe. She seems half-ready to leave at any hint, but Andrew doesn't tell her off this time.

"Please don't tell me you're going to propose some chamomile tea again. You should know I always say no." 

Renee chuckles, softly like she didn't want to wake the town up. "I was about to offer a little talk, but both can stand." 

He could have said no. In fact, he wanted to say no. Andrew wasn't used to kindness, much less coming from people who were in no way forced to be kind. He could spot and stand hypocrisy, forcedness, reluctance, but kindness had always been beyond him. One could say he was kind in his own way, but they would be wrong—he was searching, always investigating, examining every word to find the serpents hidden underneath. Why did he get off the bed and rub his eyes awake, then, it was hard to tell.

Renee's house was an Americana, ranch-style cottage lost in the middle of nowhere. Then again, in Bono, there wasn't much that wasn't. He sort of liked it—from the comfortable couches to the tea set, or the sewn flowers hanging on the kitchen wall. It was modest yet it felt more of a home than Andrew had ever seen in his entire years of existence.

They sat in the kitchen, as so often, and Renee put her hands together on the table. It was her way to signify peace, but also readiness; she was willing to listen to anything Andrew might have to say.

"This thing you called me for," he started, but never finished.

"Death," Renee said.

"Death is everywhere. This isn't death."

"I know," she smiled. "I suspected it for a long time before Priest Compson even died. I guess this made a clever conclusion to my theory." 

"You didn't see it, did you?" 

Renee shook her head. She had perceived minuscule things nobody had picked up on; eyes blackened, a smile too tight, limbs as cold and hard as rigor mortis herself. It had been irrational in the beginning, like some imaginative kid trying to persuade herself that this couldn’t be real—but every time she was on the verge of accepting reality as it was, Compson was getting sicker and sicker, and, with that, less and less of himself. Less of the man she knew and admired. Less of a man of God. Less of a man at all.

Just then Renee's cat jumped on the table. They expected her to go towards her, but she did none.

"She likes you," Renee remarked when the cat bumped her head against Andrew's shoulder. He didn't really react, uneasy and indifferent, but then, as he talked, brought a careless hand to the cat's head to pet it. It was mindless, without meaning, but Renee couldn't tear her eyes off of it.

"It's no coincidence. I think it's still there." 

"What is it?"

He went silent for a moment. 

"Possibly something terrible. Nothing we can't chase. But terrible still." He thought of his brother, of his father, and how he was the only one to really have faced a demon. He had met every kind: the supernatural and the human, evil in its more mundane forms. To people, it was a myth, a nightmare put in horror movies and scary stories. To Andrew, it was more than real—he couldn't decipher dreams from the rest anymore, and sometimes he thought he could still hear Aaron's last cries in the forlorn night. 

  
  
  


“So it’s here?” Andrew asks as he closes the door of the driver’s seat. “It doesn’t seem very welcoming.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Sheriff Caulfield says. “He’s lived here for as long as I can remember.” Then he turns to Andrew from his own service car, hands on his hips, “why did you want to come here?” 

Andrew ponders—there are limits to what he can tell people. Renee knew, for sure, but the authorities did not, and they never would. Officially, he was here to replace Father Compson. The real reason of his coming, though, had more to do with Aaron than anything else. Aaron and the others. 

He tested the temperature, word after word. It wasn’t as much of dodging a question as it was trying to pry information without asking one thing. The house, abandoned for a few months, looked like a dusty cottage buried in ivy plants. Running along the walls, they covered most of the bricks—and the house itself, lost in between trees, was the polar opposite of Renee’s southern cottage. The piece of architecture should have been taken care of, maintained and rare in this part of Bono, but all Andrew could see was a dead man’s home. 

“How much do you know about the circumstances of his death?” 

It could have been innocent, could have been curiosity, but Andrew rarely said anything out of purpose. Sheriff Caulfield didn’t seem to look into it too much, briefly frowning before raising both shoulders in indifference.

“Everything.” 

Andrew took another moment. 

“Can we go in?” Caulfield accepted, of course--it was why they were here after all--and both men entered the house with spare keys. Father Compson had died here, and upon entering, it was pretty clear how. While officials had claimed natural death of old age, the walls of Compton’s bedroom were covered of slashed dry blood, turned maroon here and there, then black, a deep, deep black that reminded Andrew of Aaron’s eyes when he wasn’t himself. Of course he had seen plenty of people since his brother—but it was always him he went back to in thoughts. 

“So you’re a…” Caulfield tried, unsure. “One of them.” He talked about Andrew like he would talk about some myth, and truly, it was one. Andrew could tell the realization was recent: Caulfield’s eyes were wide open, searching for clues a million times again, and his muscles all tense like he expected some monster to jump out of the shadows. 

“An exorcist, yes.”

“Ah,” and, with a nod, he shyly turned around. The Sheriff’s face could have been funny if the room hadn’t smelled so cruelly of death. “This explains much.”

“How come you’re aware of this version?”

“I was the one to find him. The closest neighbor reported loud noise at five in the morning and I was sent to investigate. He didn’t open up, of course.”

“Did you find him here?”

“He was already dead. And, truly, by the look of it, if he had survived until then he would have drowned in his blood or somethin’.”

“His body?”

“Burned, for safety purposes.”

Andrew nodded. That, he could fairly understand. 

“Do you believe in God, Sheriff?” 

“Y’know, everyone does ‘round here. I used to believe those fools were chasin’ something obscure, but now, I’m not so sure. Are you a real priest?” he asked then, and Andrew couldn’t help but be surprised by his clarity.

“Not really.”

Caulfield nodded again, all but reassured.

“My profession isn’t quite legal. Most exorcists depend on the Vatican, but I’m… more practical. I don’t obey to any institution there is.” 

“So you can help us?” Caulfield said as he ran two fingers in a thin splash of blood. It was as hard as rock. 

“I suppose that’s why I’m here. Can I see the bathroom?”

“The bathroom?” he echoed. “Sure, but why for?”

Both men walked to the corridor as they talked, and it’s only when the sheriff pushed the door open that he understood. It was a room he had searched over and over, hoping to find something useful, but with Andrew by his side, it was obvious.

“Most people would think mirrors break because of some supernatural happening.” He turned to the Sheriff, shoes stepping on cracked glass. He traced the gap in the mirror facing him, followed every vein like it could lead him to the truth. “It’s not demons breaking glass, though. It’s humans.” Seeing the sheriff’s confused face, he went on: “They’re still there, no matter what happens. They can hear, and see, and feel, until they’re repressed enough to disappear. I’ve seen this a few times in the past. People not recognizing themselves, going crazy. Thinking they’re losing their minds, when their minds have simply been taken away from them. They’re right here,” he whispered, following the last missing piece of glass. “But they can’t reach out. And what they see in there is a stranger. Black eyes, pale skin, dark veins. No matter how much we think we know about them from horror movies and Halloween costumes, they’re never ready to see that in a mirror.” 

He looked down at the broken pieces, bent down to pick up a bloody one. “He broke it himself,” Caulfield uselessly said. 

Andrew looked at him. “It’s not too late to get off the case, if you want to.”

“There ain’t no case, Sir,” Caulfield said. “Officially, the case is closed already. Chief didn’t want this story to go off. The perimeter is under surveillance for any curious kids, and all evidence has been taken in sure place.” 

“Evidence of what?” he laughed, empty. He didn’t care how cold it would make him: talking about evidence with demons was simply stupid. “Of course there’s no case. I’m talking about mine.”

“No,” Caulfield said. Then he thought some more, and nodded again. “No, I’m with you. I knew that man very well and he wasn’t the type to kill himself. Whatever that thing did to him, it’ll leave my town before I die myself I promise that.” 

“Careful what you wish for,” Andrew said. He didn’t thank the sheriff--there was no need to. Instead, both men left the house after he took a couple of pictures with Renee’s camera, adding to the lot of gorgeous landscapes with gruesome decor, dry blood, a room turned upside down with bloody footprints on the sheets. 

  
  
  
  


“Thank you for coming,” Andrew said when the mass was over. He looked down at his Bible, closed it and searched for Renee--they were supposed to leave together in Andrew’s car--but, before he could turn away, Neil was there.

“Good day?” he asked, and it took a minute for Andrew to figure out if it was a question.

“Fantastic,” he answered as he went to put the Bible away. Neil stayed on the steps, following his voice by turning ever so slightly to the side. Andrew didn’t miss it, and he felt intimidated by Neil’s incredible sense of hearing. He knew blind people compensated with something else, but he couldn’t imagine hearing this well. He had real trouble forgetting things already; it was enough of a curse.

“I have something to ask you today.”

“Haven’t you asked already?” 

It wasn’t a joke, but Neil still laughed. “I’d like to go see my mother today.” 

“Why me?” 

Neil stayed silent for a short while. “I need an adult. And a car.” 

“And why would I say yes?” 

He didn’t care about his reputation when it came to Neil: the guy had seen worse things than him. Now that he couldn’t see anything anymore, he probably didn’t care about how awful Andrew could be to him. All he wanted was some company--and a ride. 

“Sheriff Compson told me you were okay with it.”

Andrew gave a fake giggle, mumbling to himself: “The sweet bastard.” 

It wasn’t that Neil was something to fear because of his handicap, but rather something to avoid because he talked way too much, and ventured where people didn’t want anyone to go. Private places.  _ Secrets _ places.

Still, without knowing truly why, Andrew accepted. Maybe he knew something could be taken from it: Neil’s dark past, or maybe he needed to know his parents weren’t the only one to mistreat their kids. 

“Sure kid.” 

“What?”

“I said sure. Now go ahead before I change my mind. How far is it?” 

“A twenty minutes ride, at best. I haven’t been there for a while. ‘Used to go with dad but… he stopped going after some time. And I can’t go alone, as I said.”

Renee appeared at their sides before he could go on.

“Hi, boys.” 

“Hello, Renee,” Neil smiled. He looked where he assumed she was standing, and she held out her hand to his to gently squeeze it as a greeting. No hand shaking, no waving; here, Renee was completely aware of Neil’s handicap, as always. Andrew watched, oddly, like he had witnessed something strange, but didn’t say anything. He knew they were close anyway.

“You can come with,” Neil offered. 

“No,” she declined immediately. “Andrew and I were supposed to go home together. I still have a few things to arrange before tomorrow’s book fair. I’ll just search for a ride home with one of your followers.”

Renee smiled wide, and he sure knew why: Andrew detested the word follower. They were here for God, not for him. Though that didn’t seem to be all Neil’s case. God couldn’t sign a visiting sheet, after all.

“Are you sure?” Neil said. 

“Positive. Have fun, boys.” 

The book fair was an annual event organized by the library, but Andrew knew enough about Renee to know it was already fully prepared. It was just her excuse to make them spend time together, like she had both advised and encouraged, and now Andrew was stuck alone with the kid. Who had nothing of a kid, really.

“Let’s go,” he mumbled, and Neil followed, putting his hand forward on the edge of every bench to lead the way outside. 

 

Once in Andrew’s car, things were as familiar. It had taken a few minutes to get there: Andrew closing the church, greeting back all those who tried to conversate, and Neil responding lightly to anyone who asked how he was. By the time Andrew was behind the steering wheel he already felt annoyed, wondering what he was doing here and why he had accepted to drive him there. 

“I brought music,” Neil said as he took out some cassette tapes. He had studied the car the previous time, without Andrew even noticing. The amount of things the kid was capable of picking up without even seeing things was astonishing--and annoying, at best. 

“What music?” 

“Americana,” he smiled. 

“Not a chance.” 

“C’mon, Father,” Neil pleaded. “It’s good fun. You’ll come to love it eventually. Everybody does here.” 

“Not a doubt about that. And I already told you to not call me that.” 

“Andrew,” he insisted, so heavily it seemed like a stranger’s name.

“If I say yes, will you shut up?”

“The chances are inevitably higher.” 

It wasn’t a yes, but it was as close as he could get to one. Andrew shrugged, and let Neil put the cassette inside the player. Instantly, some cowboy-tune guitar started playing, followed by a truly ridiculous country voice. 

“Dan Tyminski,” Neil nodded for himself. He couldn’t see Andrew’s eyes rolling back, but he didn’t need to. He started singing along after a brief silence. “It used to make you happy, just to have me for your own. I was everything you’d wanted me to be!”

He stopped, then, until the lines: “I can see from miles around… and the truth is slowly coming into view.” 

Andrew could have laughed. Neil’s singing voice was pretty, but not pretty enough to make him enjoy it; he drove sharp the next round up, and Neil hit his head on the window.

“Hey! I’m here.”

“Didn’t notice.”

“It’s art. True music.” Andrew hadn’t been able to discern if this music was made only to annoy him or if Neil actually enjoyed it, but the more he listened, the more he could see why Neil would like it. It painted landscapes he couldn’t see from his own eyes, images that came to mind in a few words. He had never paid attention to music hard enough to realize. He figured, to a blind man, a word was worth a thousand pictures. 

It was incredibly hot, and the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday, but Neil still managed to fall asleep to the rhythm of Andrew’s chaotic driving. When they arrived to Jackson Falls, the psychiatric institution where Neil’s mother was, he instantly woke up without his help, much to Andrew’s surprise. He supposed that was another one of his odd talents. 

They parked in the empty visitor lot, then signed the papers at the entrance to attest Neil was accompanied by a legal adult. Andrew didn’t like the idea of leaving his full name and signature in plain sight, much less to Neil’s --not that he could see it, but still-- but Neil had grown visibly nervous at the idea of meeting his mom after such a long time, that, eventually, Andrew stayed silent and went on. 

“Are you nervous?” he asked, because he had to. 

“She’s… quite special.” 

“What do you mean by ‘special’?”

“I mean that she’s easily frustrated. I have to say the right find at the right time, or else she gets mad and I’m forced to leave. Let’s just say last time didn’t go right. She’s losing her mind and the meds aren’t helping. Seems like she can’t recognize me at all.” 

He didn’t reply to that. He had done his fair share of bad parents himself, but if his mother was making him so nerve-wracked, then why did he insist on coming to see her? Andrew supposed, after all, a son couldn’t unlove his mother.

“Room 313,” the nurse said and opened the door with a huge key. The door glided to the side and she showed them the way in, not that there was any other way at all. The room was minuscule, guarded by men in the corridor, and surveilled by cameras on the inside. On the bed, the only furniture there was next to the toilets, a woman was curled up, afraid, until she finally looked up.

“Mom?” Neil said, unsure. Of course it was her--what was left of her, at least.

“No,” she said, softly. “No, don’t come closer!”

Neil stopped in his tracks. 

“Don’t you come closer to me!”

“It’s okay, mom. It’s me.”

“You’re not Neil. You’re not my son.”

It didn’t take long for Neil to start tearing up, the emotions too brutal. Andrew stepped in and put a hand on his shoulder, about to tell him it was best to leave after all--but he shivered so violently he took his hand off, and, suddenly, his mother’s gaze shifted to him.

“Who are you?” she asked, shy. “I must talk to you.”

“Come,” he said to Neil. “Let’s leave.”

His mother suddenly threw herself out of the bed and towards us, her white gown flying around her meager body as she did. “I must talk to you!” 

“Stop right there!” he yelled, and put his palm in front of them both. He gestured to the nurse waiting at the door to come pick Neil up, and she softly grabbed his arm to guide him towards the exit. Andrew didn’t leave immediately. 

“Do you know my son?”

Andrew frowned. “Yes.”

“My son… my son. He took him.”

“Who? Who did?”

She stayed silent, for a long while. Then her face cleared up with something terrible, something obvious, and she whispered to his ear: “the one who took his eyes.” 

  
  



	4. the thin line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on [Tumblr](https://wndg.tumblr.com). listen to "honeyhoney — thin line" at the end for a nice ending  
> short but as I said I can't type with my stilettos dnjnsjndkek

 

 

"How did you lose your sight?" Andrew asked when they were back in the car. The engine was off and they were still parked in front of the building, but Neil didn't look so good, so Andrew found in himself the delicateness to wait a minute. It's not like they were going back in any soon.

"It was an accident."

"I know."

"Didn't Renee tell you?"

"No," he said. "She respects your privacy."

"And you don't?" Neil snapped.

"I guess not," Andrew shrugged in indifference. He didn't really care that much about privacy, except his own. He had so much to hide after all, so much he didn't need or want people to know. Not even Renee. In retrospect, though, she knew more about him than anyone else did. He figured it was the same for Neil: she was like that.

Neil waited a minute, gathering his thoughts into something coherent. When he was ready, finally, he took a deep breath in and turned his head towards the window, hiding himself from Andrew's view.

"We were drunk that night. I mean, Jean and I. Kevin he… he didn't drink, ever. So he was the one driving us home. We didn't even see it happening. Kevin turned to tell us to calm down and something ran in the middle of the road and next thing we knew the car was flying in the air. I don't remember much about that night. Just that when I woke up, my eyes didn't see anything anymore."

Andrew didn't say sorry. He didn't say what a shame. In fact, he didn't say anything at all, and it was better that way. Neil silently thanked him for that―he was tired of pity, of shame and gentleness, like he was something so fragile it could break any second. The truth was Neil was already broken and had nothing left to fear.

"So that's the friend you and Jean were mourning that other day. That's why he didn't come."

"Yes. He's never been too good with emotions, he keeps it all in and then it just… bursts I suppose."

"And you?"

"Me? I don't know. I hold onto anything I find."

Andrew didn't want to think about what would happen if Neil ever held onto him. Things couldn't turn that ugly.

He wondered how close he and Kevin had been, and if he was more affected by his loss than he seemed to be. The more he thought about it, the more Neil looked like the kind to conceal everything until he couldn't anymore. Quite the contrary of Jean, he supposed, though they were similar in some ways. Not that he knew Jean at all, but, he assumed.

That was his job to assume.

He turned the engine on and they didn't exchange a word until he parked in front of Neil's ugly trailer. Nobody turned the radio on, nobody put music on, nobody tried to fill that bland silence for the long twenty minutes of their ride. It was better off that way.

"Take care," he said, in a voice so neutral he almost seemed cold. Neil didn't seem shocked; he was starting to get used to Andrew's apathy after all. He wasn't as stupid as to assume he would be the exception to everything.

"Yeah, thanks." He closed the door and carefully found his way to the trailer. Andrew stayed there a little longer, watching the trailer even though nothing was happening. He knew Neil hadn't heard the engine turn back on and the car leave, but he didn't care: something was so strange about all this.

His mother, first of all.

Why was she worried about his eyes when Neil had lost his sight in a car accident? It didn't make any sense. Bono was infested with macabre energy, but a car accident had no business with demons and exorcisms. It was only three stupid kids behind a steering wheel at night, driving too fast to push the brakes in time. It was tragic, but these things happened every day.

What had happened to Compson was way more bizarre.

He couldn't warp his head around the strange thing that was Bono. The sightings, the happenings, the unsaid. What he couldn't yet see. He had the feeling people like Neil could see more than he could―not the blind ones, but those who had things to hide, too. He was sure Neil hadn't said everything.

Maybe that's why he stopped by the old police station to talk with Sheriff Caulfield. It wasn't that the man knew more―if anything, he was pretty lost in all this mess―but he retained information he hadn't thought to ask for.

"Good afternoon," the Sheriff greeted him when he passed the door. The bell rang gently and the door closed itself behind him.

"I just brought the kid home."

"Neil Josten? Oh, yes. I hope you didn't mind."

"If only you could ask me in the future, I'd appreciate."

"Sure thing," Caulfield said, going through papers on his desk. "What's bringing you here?"

"He told me about the car accident."

"Ah," Caulfield said, lifting his eyes to meet Andrew's. "A sad story, really. Everyone knows about it around here. That's how we warn youngins not to drive at night, or drunk."

"But it wasn't them driving, was it?"

"No," he conceded. "But they consisted enough distraction that they crashed. It's no wonder the kid has felt so guilty about it all this time." Guilty. That's exactly the word Andrew was searching for―his entire domain, in fact.

Demons sensed guilt more than anything else. More than fear, even.

"I feel there's something he didn't tell me."

Caulfield stared at him, hesitant. It was obvious he knew what it was, but he pondered for a moment before sighing deeply. "Maybe that's not for me to tell. If he didn't tell you he must have his reasons."

"Listen, if there's anything important, I have to know it."

The Sheriff sighed again.

"The kid and the victim were in a relationship. They had been for about a year or so. Maybe more. I don't know, Sir."

Andrew frowned. So that was the information they considered important enough not to tell him? It didn't bring anything to the situation, really.

"Thank you," he said, and turned around to leave.

"Andrew?" he called.

He peaked above his shoulder, surprised.

"Be careful with the kid. He's been through a lot of shit."

Andrew nodded, eventually, then left, almost bumping into the Chief on his way out.

 

 

 

He dreams and dreams and dreams, all sweat and tears. There is nothing but pain in the night. In the midst of it all, there was Aaron, standing tall before his bed, eyes empty like the devil’s. Andrew stared back, agape, waiting for a sound and a sign, anything that might mean it’s real. But nobody moved, nobody spoke; Aaron stood there for a long moment until blood started dripping from his eyes. Silent tears digging their way down Aaron’s corpse-like cheeks, falling down on his neck to be lost under the thick hem of his sweater. Andrew watched without a word, unable to chase the demon away--it looked like his brother, so very much--and, hypnotized, didn’t tear his eyes off him a single second.

Then something hit him with a brutality that tore him away from sleep and suddenly there was Renee towering over him, eyes panicked like never before.

“Andrew, Andrew wake up.”

He sat upright and noticed the Chief and his Sheriff standing in the doorframe, looking grave.

“They got a call from a friend of mine. She’s pregnant.”

“What does that have to with me?”

To his surprise, it was the old Chief who answered, “she’s critically sick, Sir.”

He waited a moment, looking back and forth between them three. The look on Renee’s face was honest and terrible: it spoke souvenirs back into his throat. He hadn’t dealt with a case in months now, too occupied searching for this who had caused his brother’s fate. Now that he was back in business, so to say, his hands trembled in anticipation.

Andrew leapt out of the bed and while the two officers strayed away in the corridor, Renee sat on the end of the bed and idly watched him dress. Andrew didn’t mind--his scars were already covered and Renee was too much of an old friend. A sister, perhaps.

“What’s her name?”

“Gina,” she said, but her voice was nothing but void. She was elsewhere. “She’s seven months pregnant.”

Andrew’s mouth twitched in frustration. He’d never had a baby in the deal before, and this meant no good for anyone. He knew he would have to choose between the baby and its mother, and he knew, too, that Gina would sacrifice herself, like most mothers do. He didn’t enjoy the idea of finishing the night with a body sent to Bono’s morgue.

He put his shoes on, then his priest collar, and Renee got up to adjust it.

“You don’t need that, you know.”

“I know.”

“Dare I assume you’ve grown accustomed?”

Andrew didn’t answer, even if Renee’s smile was a meek attempt at thinking of something else than her friend.

He wasn’t surprised: Renee was too kind-hearted, a friend of everyone, and in Bono there wasn’t much room for strangers when the whole population didn’t exceed 2,000 folks.

Bono was a congregation of believers, farmers and lost kids who all dreamed of getting away without really ever doing so. They grew up to work at the closest local fast food, Kelly’s, or inherited their parents’ declining enterprises. The future was elsewhere now. Bono was like a ghost town lost in a western movie, with wooden houses and an empty main street. He was almost surprised to see cars there, despite the number of ranches Bono counted.

“Where is she?”

“At home, with two other officers. They’re waiting for you.”

“Are you sure I’m the one to be called?” he asked.

Renee’s look darkened. “She called me at three a.m. saying somebody was in her house and trying to steal her baby. I sent Fuller there and he found no one, so I went.”

“And?”

“And it’s bad, Andrew. Very bad. I reckon she was acting strange these past few weeks, but I’d never think… I’d never…” she sighed. “She had locks on her bedroom door, from the inside.”

“To protect her from someone?” Caulfield asked, back in the doorframe.

“To protect her from herself,” Andrew corrected, and collected his things.

 

 

Gina Murphy’s house was a sad, tiny house lost in a dead-end, and Andrew noticed a single car. The rest were the police’s. Gina wasn’t married, or maybe had her husband pass away; he didn’t know. All he knew was that she was an isolated, lonely and vulnerable prey, and now he wondered why Aaron had been the one when all along he had been the one to be so.

Isolated. Lonely.

Vulnerable.

He heard the screams before he heard anything else. Feral, inhumane strings of voices that did not belong to Gina Murphy, or to anyone for that matter. He heard the police officers warn to stay back, and the Sheriff ran up the stairs, leaving Renee and Andrew behind.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Renee asked, because, though she didn’t know what the devil looked like, she had heard enough about him.

“I have been waiting for a long time,” he said, and followed the traces of Caulfield up to Gina’s bedroom. The door was busted open from the inside, its frame broken in shards.

First he didn’t see Gina, too wary of his surroundings to really take them in. Then he entered the room and the officers slowly backed out of it as though to leave, and he heard Renee gasp behind his shoulder.

“Gina?” she asked, but it wasn’t Gina who answered.

“You…” the voice laughed, and Andrew stilled in anticipation. It wasn’t fear, though he was afraid; it was impatience. He wanted to know. He needed to know. “I have heard all things about you.”

“From who?” Andrew asked.

“Oh,” the voice said, and Gina’s chubby body seemed to get even whiter. The voice that came out of her throat was vile and crude, masculine and horrifying, a frustrating contrast to the beautiful face of its owner; a porcelain skin with a doll’s eyes, innocent eyes. Andrew looked into it but found nothing. He wondered if it was too late. “From an old friend.”

“Leave her alone,” Andrew said. He took the crucifix in his pocket and held it tightly. “She’s not who you’re looking for is she?”

Gina didn’t shake her head―she slowly, dangerously rotated on her shoulders, like she was threatening to break her neck. From the outside it could look like suicide, but oh, Andrew knew better. It was murder, murder in its most horrifying forms.

“Renee,” he said. “The Bible.”

Renee rushed to fetch the Bible in her bag and walked up next to him, mumbling the lines at the pages Andrew had marked. He didn’t need a priest to do so―Renee had faith, more faith than anyone else in Bono, him included. He didn’t believe in God, even after seeing the devil. It was a sad thing to disbelieve, especially when he ran a parish, but he couldn’t help it.

“Leave her alone,” he said, louder to cover Renee’s voice. She didn’t tremble, didn’t stumble on words; but he could feel her body tense next to him. He paused for a moment, glancing at her, asking himself if it was worth the risk. Not only to witness, but to expose; and then it made sense.

Renee couldn’t be touched because she believed. It was him who took all the risks, him who maybe wouldn’t be himself at the end of the night. Not that he cared.

“If it’s me you want, why don’t you take me?”

The devil didn’t answer; it smiled, only, and it was enough of an answer. To Renee, it meant it could do so any second―but to Andrew, it meant there was no way to possess him yet. Perhaps was he too resisting, perhaps he had still some strength buried deep inside of him, he didn’t know, but whatever that was was enough to keep the devil away for a moment.

“You can’t,” he snapped.

“Watch me,” the voice riled.

He waited, anticipating―but nothing happened. Then, it flashed upon him like a revelation: he wasn’t going to be touched tonight. The puppet would be Gina, and whatever provocation he had in store would result in a death or another, but certainly not his.

He almost wished it did.

Gina’s anger vanished for a second as she came back to herself. Renee thought it was the end of it, but Andrew knew it was like the other times; a goodbye. It wasn’t even pity, it was the same kind of provocation Andrew had in him.

He looked at the round stomach of the mother and gulped. Renee rushed to help her as her muscles gave up on her weight, and apologized when Andrew came to tie her hands in her back.

“It’s for your safety,” he said, but there was so much he could not do. She didn’t need to know that.

She was crying in Renee’s arms until suddenly she wasn’t. Renee didn’t move, nor did Gina, and Andrew cleared his throat. It was back already.

“Killing a pregnant woman is a sin, you know?”

“I don’t care for your fucking God!” the voice bit.

“It’s not my God,” Andrew snapped, and Renee looked up in confusion as she stepped back from Gina’s body.

“Gina,” she whispered but nobody whispered back.

“Gina is gone,” it laughed. “Messages will be delivered in due time.”

“Shut up,” Andrew spat out. “It’s time you leave her body you piece of shit.”

“Oh, don’t you know? I think I’ll stay here. It’s… comfortable.”

Then the voice groaned and, just like that, started talking in German. Andrew knew enough of that language to make up a few words, but the devil mumbled and rushed so quick it turned his words into a litany nobody could decipher.

He realized he was praying in reverse―but not quite. God was replaced by the devil in each line, and when he finished his dark prayer, the crucifix above Gina’s bed almost fell. It swung on the wall until it stilled, upside down like Andrew dreamed it every night.

“Don’t look at it,” he told Renee when the demon didn’t tear its eyes off her. She obeyed, cheeks pink with fear.

“Gina?” she asked again, lost.

The thing freed its hands and dangled its fingers close to Andrew’s head before clawing on her clothed stomach, trying to bring the unborn baby out of her. It was a sinister sight, but a much more terrible sound―flesh torn apart, open, gashes slitting through the skin to expose organs and blood.

“You choose,” the devil laughed. “It’s her or the baby.”

Andrew waited. He crossed Renee’s gaze, and Caulfield stepped in from behind. “We must save both,” he said. Oh how sweetly innocent and naïve that was.

“Quick,” the devil tempted as nails dug in the skin deeper and deeper.

“The baby,” Andrew decided, and Renee brought a hand to her mouth to choke down a horrified cry. “Quick, bring the nurses!” and as he said that, two nurses hurried their way inside with first aid kits. Andrew rushed to the body and grabbed its neck firmly, trying to maintain it where it was as the body shook and shook and shook, vibrating with a kind of fury that didn’t belong to this world.

There was no giving birth without Gina, so the nurses had to cut the stomach open as quickly as possible from the gashes already there and dig up to grab the baby and cut its umbilical tie, as Andrew kept it down on the bed and Renee grabbed its wrists still.

The smell was awful, like corpses long dead, and blood, and sweat, and something as acrid as sweet fear. It didn’t take long for the demon to get angry.

“Do this and you’ll never know what you came here to know,” it threatened.

Andrew stopped breathing. This was it: the name of the one who had killed Aaron. That is what he wanted more than anything, and the devil was in his head, telling him he knew that much. Of course he did.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re lying,” it laughed again.

The nurses took the baby and brought it outside in clean covers as they ran downstairs to put it somewhere safe, and it cried, it cried, probably knowing what was going to happen before it even did. Poor orphan, Andrew thought.

When the nurses disappeared, the officers took their place again, arming weapons at Gina’s lying body, and Andrew maintained her on the mattress again. The surgery should have been unbelievably painful without anesthesia, but this was no human anymore.

“Aaron…” it sang. “Poor Aaron. Little Aaron.”

“Shut up!”

It took enough of Andrew’s surprise that he lost his grip on her shoulders, and Renee was taken aback instantly. Gina jumped off the bed, blood pouring down on the floor from the open wound, and ran towards Caulfield.

He didn’t have a choice, Andrew knew. He heard the gunshot before it actually went off, and he closed his eyes as Gina’s body stumbled dead on the ground. There was silence, followed by Renee’s soft cries, turning into yelling, and she ran to the body to shake it―but nobody helped. The gunshot wound had pierced her forehead, and lodged somewhere in her brain, killing her instantly before the blood loss even could.

Andrew didn’t hear anything after that. He slowly abandoned the corpse at Renee’s hands, and slowly found his way out of the house, where neighbors and nosy souls were already gathered behind police lines. People gasped at the blood on his hands, whispering to each other, but Andrew heard nothing. He walked and walked and walked until he couldn’t breathe, and it didn’t take long―he was inches to his car when he finally lost control, and choked.

But a hand brushed his shoulder and he turned again, tuned back into reality.

“Neil?” he asked, voice broken.

“Yes,” the boy replied. “You dropped this.” Neil gave him his crucifix, lost on the way out of the house, and Andrew shook his head, tired.

Blood brushed on Neil’s hands, but he didn’t mind enough to wipe them on his pants. He left before Andrew could say anything―not that he would, he knew so that much―and it’s only when Neil’s silhouette disappeared into the crowd that Andrew wondered how could a blind boy know he had dropped it.


	5. way too close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a fill chapter for character dev and some backstory. tumblr is @wndg and @jeanjosten

 

“Andrew?” Renee asked.

“Yes. Yes I’m going.”

Renee wore a black dress and her rainbow hair was pulled back in a gentle ponytail. She looked like a widow today, and it reminded him constantly of their loss. He didn’t care that much about Gina—he’d never seen her at the mass and he’d never even met her at all. What he did care for, though, was all he would lose to the devil, and it only added another name to the long list.

He felt incapable. He felt guilty.

Andrew grabbed his bible and adjusted the collar of his shirt, following Renee into the church. Heads turned as he walked by, but he looked back at none of them; and it’s only when he reached Gina’s coffin that he finally looked around. The church, tiny at best, was so full people didn’t have a seat. He decided to keep it short, a few prayers, a song, and people talking about what they knew of her. A nice commemoration, a nice wake, he thought. That’s the least she deserved.

People were weeping on the benches, keeping their heads on their hands to contain their cries, and Andrew despised every bit of it. He didn’t like sadness, he didn’t like to mourn—if anything, he thought Renee would make a better job at easing their pain than he ever could. But it was he whom they had come to hear, he whom they trusted, and today, this felt more like a burden than an honor.

“Today we are reunited to mourn the loss of Gina Murphy, who passed away yesterday in an unfortunate turn of events.”

Of course he couldn’t tell them what had happened, why he’d stepped out of there covered in blood, why the baby had survived but not its mother, why Gina had died at all. They wouldn’t be able to understand—and though they would believe, oh they would believe, it would bring more trouble than anything.

“Let’s not cry her loss as she is now at the right of God, but rather look back on the memories we had with her. To start this ceremony I will welcome Henry Murphy, Gina’s older brother.” People clapped heartlessly and a bearded man came up the stage as Andrew walked down. They shook hands but Andrew barely stayed there long enough to see his face and, instead, searched the crowd for a familiar boy’s face.

He didn’t find him. Where the hell was he?

 

Neil didn’t come to the funeral. He didn’t come to the wake, either. He was simply… not there.

It’s only three days later, when the town smelled of death and people walked around without purpose that, finally, he stumbled on him at Renee’s library.

“Neil,” he said, almost a question.

“Andrew,” Neil answered. It was playful, mysteriously enough given he hadn’t come to church in days after being so faithful.

“Haven’t seen you around for quite a while.”

“I’ve been quite busy, turned around I’d say.”

“From God?”

“From preoccupations,” he replied, and closed his book. It’s then that Andrew realized it wasn’t a bible. He shouldn’t have been that surprised, yet he was—it was a simple young adult literature piece in Braille, something banal and medium-length that didn’t hold much importance to Andrew’s eyes. “Coming of age and dilemmas,” Neil said when he felt the weight of his gaze on his book. He shook it in the air as though to emphasize his words, and Andrew frowned.

“You didn’t strike me as the type to read that kind of literature.”

“I would surprise you,” he laughed. “What type did I strike you as?”

Andrew thought for a moment. Maybe it was the sly smile on Neil’s face, but he realized then: Neil was flirting.

“Don’t do that with me.”

“Do what?” he asked, almost too innocently.

“That.”

Andrew started to turn around and search for Renee when he reached out for his hand, startling Andrew in the process. Their hands brushed but fell away, stranger to one another, as Andrew examined the boy’s face.

“Wait.”

He did. Neil said nothing, so Andrew did.

“Why weren’t you at the wake?”

“I didn’t know her that well.”

“But you were at her house that night, weren’t you?”

Neil stayed silent for a moment.

“I was.”

“And how did you know for the crucifix?”

“My hearing is—”

“I don’t care for your excuses. How long have you been blind? A year? Less? You can’t be that gifted, at night, in a crowd, and to stumble upon me by accident on top of that.”

“You’re right.” Andrew waited, liking the way things took. But he wasn’t close to being done with the boy, because he said, “I was searching for you.”

A moment passed, again. “Me? Why?”

Neil just smiled. It was enough of a distraction that Andrew noticed it, and snapped once more: “Stop doing that.”

“What?” Neil asked, clearly lost.

“Stop… smiling.”

“I’m not allowed to smile?” Neil joked.

“No,” Andrew seriously replied, and left.

He found Renee in the History alley, putting books away, and didn’t take his mind off Neil for a single second. “Neil is here?” he asked, though he knew the answer already. It was begging for more.

“Oh, Andrew, I hadn’t seen you. Yes he is. He… tends to camp here a lot when his father is home.”

“His father?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean he is back in town?”

“You should ask him,” Renee shrugged.

 

 

He didn’t. Instead, he took advantage of the information to pay a visit to Neil’s dad. The trailer looked as sunny and sad as it did the other time, and Andrew parked his car a reasonable distance away from it. A man with a wife-beater came out, wiping his hands on a white tissue, and Andrew was struck by how much he resembled his son.

“Mr. Josten?”

“Wesninski,” he corrected dryly. “Long story. Who are you?”

“I’m Father Minyard.”

“Ah, you’re the new priest in town.”

“I guess so.”

“And what are you doing on my property, Minyard?”

“I came to talk to you. About your son.”

“What’d he do again?”

“Nothing, nothing—” he said as he noticed the tight features on Wesninski’s face. It was something he had seen before; something like his own father. It was rage, and violence, and fearlessness in the most merciless way. He knew instantly why Neil would go to Renee’s library whenever his father was back in town.

If he wasn’t beating the hell out of him, then it was something along those lines. He noticed then that Gina’s house was only a street away.

“So,” Wesninski said when he offered Andrew a way into the trailer. “What do you want from my son?”

“To know him better.”

“That shithead already talks so much. I’m surprised you don’t already know enough.”

“He’s quite talkative, indeed. Just not about the things I’m interested in.”

This got Wesninski’s attention, who slowed down at the words, and both sat on opposite sides of the table.

“Has he been the same since his accident?”

“The same? He didn’t fucking believe in god before that accident. Now he’s all about it. God this, God that, like it’s fucking miracles raining down the sky. ’t hasn’t rained in months here.” He paused, thinking. “But that’s not what you wanna know, is it?”

Andrew nodded.

“He sent his poor mother at the institution. I couldn’t do nothing ‘bout it.”

“I heard she was some kind of crazy.”

“Crazy? She is, for sure. But that’s not why she went there.”

“Went?”

“You heard me.”

“I thought you’d sent her yourself.”

“Nah. The poor woman sent herself there. She claimed it was because of him.”

“Neil?” Wesninski nodded at that. Andrew pondered, watching the end of the trailer as though searching for Neil’s things; but it was hard to decipher what was his and what wasn’t in this tight space. “What do you mean?”

“He scared her all the time with his bullshit. She maintained he could see even through blindness, and that those weren’t his eyes.”

“That sounds like crazy to me.”

“Don’t know who’s the crazy one, but I’m not going to waste my time tryin’ to figure it out.”

“Can I see his bedroom?”

“He doesn’t have one. He sleeps in my bed while I’m not there.”

“And when you are?”

“He’s not here, is he? Do you think he ever bothers to come home to help his father? No, sure doesn’t. He doesn’t sleep here. I don’t even know what he looks like now.”

“How long have you been gone?”

“For weeks. On the road for work, drivin’ big cars up North.”

Andrew didn’t know if it was the truth, but he didn’t bother asking.

“And Neil?”

“He dropped out of school after his accident. He’s turning eighteen next week, so I guess it’s no bother.”

Apparently, he didn’t care that much about Neil’s education. Which, looking at the rest, was no surprise. He wondered where Neil slept. Probably at his friend’s house. Jean it was.

“Anyway, his stuff is everywhere. Have a look and enjoy yourself. I’ll be outside.”

He grabbed the white, now oil-stained tissue, and went outside near his car. Andrew took advantage of the loneliness to search for anything—clues, information, personal stuff. But there wasn’t much here; books and books, clothes, tools, food left there in mold, and empty cups accumulating in the sink.

He did examine the bed area, still. That’s when he hit himself on the roof, hitting the bent platform above his head, and realized that was a picture taped on it. It was Neil, smiling wide, and—a boy who he’d never seen before.

This was probably Kevin. He was handsome, dark-skinned and tall, taller than Neil at least. He had an arm around his shoulders and a smile as bright as day. It was clear they were close, and Andrew stared long enough to be convinced the picture had moved.

“Finished yet?” Wesninski asked when he got back in.

“Yes,” Andrew said, and swiftly put the picture inside inside his shirt.

 

 

 

He was close. Way too close.

Sitting there, on the edge of the bed, shirtless and bony and pale. Looking right back at him with two blue, piercing eyes, almost as destabilizing as his father’s. Red bangs fell before his eyes and he reached out to put them out of the way. He wanted to stare into those eyes a little longer, if only for a minute. He could have damned himself for them.

He didn’t know what it was—the way they examined, the way they knew; perhaps the false innocence in them. He thought they reminded him of his own—but clearer, like a cold ocean, bringing life back into his lungs in this choking heat.

Andrew remembers he was close. Way too close.

Tilting his head just a little bit, smiling on the side like it was natural. He wanted to hate him so bad, and he did, he really did. It was easy to hate someone like Neil. Easy to despise the way his smile went from charming to mocking in seconds, sometimes so indecipherable he couldn’t tell which of the two it really was. Andrew cracked his neck both sides and Neil’s eyes dropped to his lips.

Oh, he doesn’t remember much, but he remembers he was way too close.

He remembers Neil leaning in, lips parting like danger.

He remembers waking up in sweat as though from a nightmare.

And really, he wishes he could have forgotten.

Andrew went outside on the porch to smoke a cigarette or two, after that. Renee was asleep, only her cats laying around in the lounge and begging to be let out too; so he did, uncaring, and leaned his bare arms on the porch’s rail.

“Fucking trouble,” he mumbled.

He was in his head. He was slowly getting into his head.

Andrew didn’t know what it was about this kid, but something was deeply wrong. It was like all seven sins had been put into one; like temptation had never been so close. He figured maybe it was the devil’s way of bringing him closer after all these failed attempts, though the devil couldn’t possibly have something to do with it. It was Andrew and unresolved trauma, Andrew and the way he let people down. Andrew and how mercilessly he made them die.

One of the cats twirled its tail around Andrew’s unclothed calf and he looked down at it, vaguely curious.

“What’s your deal,” he mumbled again ashe lit his cigarette and took a puff.

The kitten meowed back at him and he looked away. The wilderness was all around, like it never really stopped, like he was all alone—and for a long moment Andrew enjoyed that idea. Being alone again. Leaving, again. He’d always leave.

He wondered when he’d leave Bono in its turn and hoped it’d be soon. Troubles were already ahead.

And they were even closer when, later that day, in the early afternoon, Neil ran up to him in the street as he crossed it to the police station’s way. He left his friends behind and carefully trotted up the sidewalk until he’d gently bump into his arm. Then he’d pretend to look up, and smile convincingly.

“Andrew.”

He didn’t reply. He still remembered the dream, and he didn’t want to give too much—to say too much, to get too close. He hated that possibility so fiercely.

“I’m turning eighteen on Monday. Of course it’s only Friday, but with the guys we thought we’d have a go in the local nightclub.”

“You’re only seventeen,” he reminded him.

“But not for long. Besides, we need an adult to watch over us, don’t we?”

“Are you inviting me to your prepubescent party with your friends, entering a nightclub illegally? I’m a priest.”

“And I know you hate that. You should come.”

Really, there wasn’t much to say about that. Neil could see through him. Oh, he raged.

“It’s out of question. And stay out of trouble. I don’t want to have to lecture you at the next mass.”

“Don’t worry about me, Chief.”

“I’m no Chief.”

“I know, I know.”

“Why are they calling him Chief anyways? He’s retired. It’s Caulfield in charge now.”

“Because he still puts his head in the police business like he’d never left. He’ll always remain the Chief,” Neil shrugged. It was only an odd but known entity around here. He didn’t care that much. He was seventeen after all.

“I’ll be on my way,” he said as he put a cigarette between his lips. “Careful with your illegal birthday plans.”

“You really should come, you know,” Neil smiled.

He mumbled back.

Neil smiled again and trotted back to his friends, barely responding to the questions he’d been asked. From here Andrew could hear Jean offended at the idea of asking the priest out to a nightclub with underage boys, but Andrew was barely twenty-two and, to be fair, nightclubs weren’t quite his thing. He could go there for sure, but there’d always be this strange sense of loneliness, like he didn’t really belong anywhere in the end. It’s not like he hadn’t tried.

At some point at least.

 

“Sheriff,” Andrew greeted as he passed the door.

“Minyard,” Caulfield greeted back. “Or should I call you Andrew? Lately it feels like we’ve been needing more help than never before.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged. “It won’t serve no purpose.”

“Very well.”

“How are things going since the Murphy house?”

“Quite badly. My guys are shaken and some have had to leave work for a day or two. They have been forbidden to communicate any information on any of this, so they’re dealing the best they can. As for me, I am… grateful that you were there. If not for you we would have had to shoot this lady before she could have her son.”

“But she’s dead now.”

Caulfield made a face. He wasn’t all for orphans, but he wasn’t going to prefer a baby’s death either. He trusted this kid would find a happy family to be raised by, and that was enough for now, no matter what had happened to Gina Murphy.

“The baby’s dealt with at the hospital waiting for adoption. Meanwhile the Murphy house is still forbidden territory. It’s hard to keep curious kids away, you know, so we sent a patrol for surveillance.”

“Just like Compson,” he nodded.

“Just like Compson. What are we doing now?”

“We wait.”

 

 

It was midnight when Andrew decided he needed to be wasted, and, unfortunately enough, Renee’s house was empty of any alcohol. She was a past alcoholic after all.

He drove to the closest station and parked his car in front of the shop. And, when he walked down the aisle for minuscule alcohol bottles, he found Neil and his friends—they were four in total—stumbling before the aisle, laughing like kids.

“Hold it kids. Alcohol’s not for the underage.”

He looked at the smallest one, a Japanese guy, who was pouring vodka in a Sprite bottle. They all looked up at him and it’s only when Neil wholeheartedly laughed that they all decided not to run away.

“So you’re here for the same reason as us?”

“Am still allowed to drink, if I recall.”

“Of course. No telling on our part then?”

“I’m not here to dictate what you guys should be doing or not.”

“You’re right,” Neil conceded. “You’re here to discover what happened to Sheriff Compson, aren’t you?” He made a pause during which Andrew stared hard. “I’m not dumb you know.

“No. You’re not.” He was far from it in every way.

He let Neil smile to him once again and disappear with his band, leaving him chilly. He didn’t know how he could recognize him everytime. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

But he drank himself to sleep that night, and he didn’t dream of him.


	6. warm shadows

 

Andrew watched the crucifix above his head for a long, long time. Too long to be able to tell when he’d really started, or when he’d woken up at all. It was past ten a.m. now, birds chirping outside Renee’s house, cups clinking downstairs where she was most likely preparing breakfast. He’d thought about it all night—the look on Gina’s face, how similar it had been to Aaron’s back then. What if he had met it again, what if he hadn’t realized? What if all he was searching for had been in front of him, for the first time in forever, and he’d let it slip away? He couldn’t bear the thought of it. He couldn’t even let himself think about it any longer, and got out of bed, furious.

He dressed in casual mess on this mass-free day and walked downstairs to meet Renee. She smiled at him but he didn’t imitate, too busy lingering on things he didn’t want to think about.

“It’s Neil’s birthday today,” she sang as she put a cup of warm coffee down on the table, right in front of him. He looked up as though to say thank you, but the interrogation in his eyes was visible: what did it have to do with him?

“Good for him.”

“You should wish him a happy birthday, he needs it. His father forced him to come back last night but he didn’t want to tell me why. Maybe he’d tell you.”

“Why me?”

“He trusts you,” she shrugged, and turned to the sink to wash her plate.

“He trusts you more, idiot.”

Renee smiled at the soft insult. She knew full well how much it took for Andrew to hold back on these things when irritation wins the fight.

“Everybody here trusts you. In a different way than me. They look up to you… they all think you’re good influence.

“But I’m not,” he snapped.

“As you want. But he’d like it. I think he cares for you a lot.”

Andrew stayed silent after that, sipping on his coffee like the conversation had never started. He had much more important things to think about, like who was the next target of whatever demon had possessed Gina’s body the other night. He needed to get closer to danger even though it meant risking the same fate—it had said it itself: the thing had known about Aaron, and about all the others. The only way to catch the demon was to learn its name, and he’d never felt more impatient.

He found himself roaming around Gina’s house all day, searching for what he hadn’t caught in her things. He found nothing in the papers, nothing in the bathroom except futile things and medical treatments that had no importance in the case; he didn’t find much more in the living room or the rest of the house, and finally collapsed on the front porch, sitting down with his eyes closed like he couldn’t move anymore. It was driving him mad.

“Hello,” someone said, and he opened his eyes, ready to chase whoever was curious enough to venture this far on the property. The neighbors weren’t too far away, he knew, but he couldn’t let Bono learn about what had truly happened. They were all believers. They would lose their minds and panic.

But it was no neighbor. It was, in a way; but not the one he had expected to see there. There was Neil, standing taller than him a few meters away, hands in the pockets of his washed out jeans. He looked a little sad, more than usual, and Andrew couldn’t help but notice the bruise on his cheekbone. He guessed from experience how the loose sweatshirt on his shoulders probably hid more, peppered all over his body like a path to sadness.

“Neil.”

He didn’t reply.

He’d never seen the kid this quiet.

“Eighteen, then?” he forced himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t like silence; it was more that he didn’t like seeing sad people so close. He always feared they would cry or worse, something he could not handle and much more likely didn’t want to handle to begin with.

“Eighteen. But I’ve lost my innocence a long time ago,” he shrugged.

Andrew caught on the despair in his voice, and how terrible it must have been to come home after all this time. He didn’t know where the kid slept, and he didn’t want to know, but all he knew is that there wasn’t much worse than a home you don’t feel safe in. The bruises were a quite colorful imagery and he imagined Wesninski towering above him, hand in the air, ready to hit. He closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to say he was sorry, but he was. This was something he could understand more than anyone.

“You shouldn’t have gone home,” is all that came out instead.

“It’s okay,” he smiled, but it wasn’t as bright as usual. It was barely even there, only forced out for reassurance—or avoidance. He could bet Neil avoided the town today simply to dodge all those invasive and falsely caring questions. It wasn’t that the people of Bono was ill-intended or selfish, it was that even if they tried, they couldn’t possibly understand.

What it felt like. How he felt. How much he wanted to disappear.

“The good news is that you’re legal now. You can move out today.”

“Where would I go?”

“You tell me.” After all, it was he who slept elsewhere, on foreign grounds. He was smart enough to figure out a way out of home when his father came back, and though he had been forced last night, he knew this wasn’t going to happen again.

He didn’t quite know why.

“No need. My father is gone again.”

“Is he? That was a short visit.” Fortunately so. “Still. A trailer isn’t a good place for a kid like you.”

“I’m not a kid!” Neil blurted out, suddenly irritated.

Andrew watched him, curious. It was the first time Neil seemed remotely human to him. Vulnerable and pained. Flawed.

“I’m sorry,” he then apologized, most likely because Andrew was older and the priest of his parish. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

“You did. That’s okay.” He meant it, too.

Neil sat down next to him without permission. The stairs of Gina’s porch were small and uncomfortable, but it was preferable to where Neil was coming from anyways.

“How did you escape the patrol?”

“I can recognize different cars by sound. Police cars have a peculiar sound to them, it’s the wheels.”

“Sneaky bastard,” he said, and for the first time, this seemed like a joke. It made Neil smile, from the side only, and none of the men looked at each other.

“What about me? How did you know it was me?”

“I heard you sigh when you sat down. I was already close enough to hear that. You sigh a lot, you know.”

As though on cue, Andrew rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply. The night hadn’t been good, and the day wasn’t much better.

“Did you know what happened here?”

“I did.”

“How?”

“I figured it out. I was there when it happened, remember?”

How could he forget? He had pulled a sick trick on him.

“Well my father used to tell me stories of things that happened in Bono.” Andrew could tell that was a lie, but it was okay. He let him go on, pulling a pack of cigarette out of his pocket and taking one out. “Sickening things nobody suspected. I know all about it, you know. What are you, an exorcist? That sounds so cool.” He made sure to turn, eyes on him even though he couldn’t see. It was like he was trying to say something with the curve of his lips.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m not a worrier.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I was… looking for something. Anything.”

“But it’s gone and you know it. What was it?”

“A demon,” he simply said, and put the cigarette between his lips. He lit it up and Neil turned as though to watch, suddenly interested.

“Can I have a drag?”

“Absolutely not, kid.”

“I told you I’m no kid.”

Andrew pondered. He took a puff and looked at the cigarette like it could be more dangerous than he knew it already was. Then, carefully, he took Neil’s hand and brushed along his fingers. He grabbed them and shivered, astonished by the mild touch as he put the cigarette between his fingers.

“I must go. Keep it,” he blurted out suddenly, and got up. He had to leave and leave now, before the remnants of his dreams got the best of him. He could clearly remember Neil leaning in, a twisted projection of his mind toying with him from within. He hated it.

“Wait,” Neil rushed and almost dropped the cigarette. He grabbed Andrew’s hand as he was leaving and pulled on it, not caring about the way their fingers almost intertwined in the motion. Andrew lost his balance and finally decided to sit back down, though not fully consciously.

“What?”

“Just… don’t go.”

They stayed in silence, and the patrol car drove past the house at this exact moment. They both watched it, Neil by the sound of it, and once the car disappeared into the trees, Andrew adverted his gaze towards him again. Their hands were long untouched, and yet, Neil was trying again.

Shyly, like a kid unsure of what he was doing, Neil reached out and brushed his figure until he found his arm. He let his fingertips drift down his arm and to his hand, which he oh so slowly grabbed. It was slow by permission, by carefulness; he wanted to make sure he was allowed to do it.

And, for some sick reason he ignored, Andrew let him.

He didn’t put pressure on their fingers, didn’t brush a thumb over his hand, didn’t show any sign of affection though Neil had had the courage to do something about it—but they knew, they knew that letting him do so alone was a proof of trust, something greater than words. Neil tried to remain content as he held his hand, and took his first drag, then coughed.

Andrew smiled from the side.

“Keep it,” Neil said, coughing again.

“Not for you, huh.”

To his surprise, Andrew used his left hand to grab the cigarette, leaving their hands tied up on his thigh. It made Neil smile in his turn, and he knew Andrew could feel it by the way his blood pulsed through his wrist.

They stayed like that until it got uncomfortable and, carefully as they had did it, they let go of each other. Andrew thought he would feel relieved by it, but he only felt heavy, suddenly, like Neil’s hand had brought something more he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t know what it was.

Then he drove the Bono and made sure to drop Neil somewhere he was comfortable being; Jean’s house, to ask him whether he could stay for a moment or not. He claimed his father was gone but that Andrew said needed a new place for now, and drove away to let the boys decide. He found Renee in town, buying a cake for Neil’s birthday but didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t talk about what had happened, either.

He was burning with impatience, waiting for something to happen in town, waiting for someone to be possessed again. He needed to act, and he couldn’t when nothing was happening. When everyone was safe.

 

 

 

He ate with Caulfield at the local diner, late that night. It was dark outside when the waitress put plates down on the table, eggs and bacon, because they weren’t that hungry. Caulfield looked like he knew something he couldn’t put his finger on, and it had all of Andrew’s interest. It was a business dinner, after all.

“What are you not telling me?”

“It’s one of Neil Josten’s friends.”

“The small one?” he figured, small and vulnerable. Perhaps a car accident, too.

“Not, the tall on. Jean.” Andrew looked up, frustrated. It was Neil’s best friend.

“What is with him?”

“He’s sick. Feverish, his mother told me on the phone. For now he’s asleep but she said he was acting weird.”

“That’s not possible,” Andrew said. “I was there this afternoon, I dropped Neil and they stayed together all afternoon. He seemed fine.”

“Obviously he wasn’t,” Caulfield said. “She called me an hour ago telling me I should definitely come tomorrow.”

“Shouldn’t they call a doctor instead?”

“They did.”

“And?”

“He found nothing. At first he thought that was a bad flu, but he’s only feverish in the symptoms. There’s no way to tell what’s up with him. Do you think what I think?”

“He’s next,” Andrew swallowed. He couldn’t bear the anticipation pulsing in his ears. He was getting closer. “It’s getting quicker. Usually it’s over the course of a few weeks until it gets obvious.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“For the kid, yes. But for us—it’s priceless.”

“What do we do then?”

“Tomorrow come pick me up and we’ll go see Jean together. Bring two other cars, we never know. I’ll bring Renee, too. I need her faith.”

“Are we sure that is what we think?”

“Positive. I know someone close to him who might be a target, too.”

After all, those demons always targeted people close to them—not the individuals themselves. Andrew would be dead and Aaron alive.

“But for now the kid’s asleep. He’s resting. He’ll never every bit of his strength tomorrow.”

“Sure, sure,” Caulfield said, a took a bite of his bacon. “So what’s your story?”

“My story?”

“Yes. Renee didn’t tell me. She said it was yours to tell.”

He chuckled. “She always says that anyways.” He pondered for a moment on whether to tell him or not. But then he thought, if there was a moment to do so, it was now or never. He would change his mind forever. “My brother was possessed. Since then I am looking for that peculiar demon, and I try to help those who are possessed by another along the way.”

“And how is your brother now?”

There it was, the unfortunate question. He swallowed.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. It was years ago, I didn’t know what to do.”

“How long?”

“A few.” He didn’t remember how old he was. Perhaps he was as old as Neil was right now.

“So you’re after that thing and you came to Bono?”

“Renee called me when she had her first suspicions. Then she called me again when Compson died and offered me the job. When she described this town, I thought, this might be the perfect place to find it. Bono is peculiar.”

“I know what you mean. But we like it down here. Bono’s good people, too. They deserve good stuff.”

He nodded silently. He wasn’t here to save Bono, no matter what he told people. But the more he thought about it —against his will, surely— the more he thought, perhaps —perhaps— he could save someone else, too. He just didn’t know who yet.

Both men ate in silence and exchanged some information about the advancement of the Murphy case. Where the body was, what was written on official files, what the family had been told at the funeral on the private side. It was useless information for Andrew; he had seen it all before. He didn’t care about the mourners, about the grief—he needed the attack, he needed the moment, he needed the opportunity to force a demon out of its cage and kill it. He needed sick people to cure. He couldn’t trap a demon with the possession itself.

 

 

It was night when Andrew pushed the door of Renee’s house, only to find two silhouettes waiting in the kitchen.

“Andrew.”

Andrew frowned and looked at whoever Renee was holding by the shoulders, smile on her face. It was Neil. Bruised Neil, shy Neil, Neil finally safe. He was smiling, too.

“Neil? What are you doing here?”

“He’s staying here with us from now on,” Renee finally said.


	7. this thing in me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this but you know,, story advancing  
> tumblr is @wndg and you can @ me at @jeanjosten  
> i'm working on a vague trailer but adobe premiere keeps crashing and it's so hard to find clips for this story kqnvninvs

He heard Neil’s steps before he even appeared in the doorframe. Neil was there, as always, though he looked a little less content than the hour before. There was something grim on his face, like he knew something was wrong.

“What are you doing here?” Andrew asked. It was his bedroom, though the door was open.

“Renee told me. About Jean.”

“Why did she do that? It’s private business and she knows it.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Nothing more?” Andrew chuckled. Who knew.

“He’s just my friend,” Neil seriously snapped. It felt like it was an important thing to mention, and he didn’t move until Andrew spoke again.

“Fine. What do you want?”

“I don’t wanna be alone.”

He thought about it. Telling him to go see Renee was as useless as to tell him to go away. Finally he closed his book and sighed. Neil closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“Whatever will happen.”

“Thanks,” Neil sarcastically said, but it wasn’t as agressive as Andrew had expected it to be.

Somehow the boy was still warm to him. Despite everything he had learned, everything he had said, Neil was still opening up every second to him. It was astonishing. He trusted him like he trusted Jean, or Kevin; though it had been only weeks, though it was a stranger among others. He was there, so close, so warm. Andrew closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it and yet here was he.

He lied down and Neil did the same, carefully resting on his sides, hands patting down the territory to make sure he didn’t take too much place. He took half the bed only, and Andrew turned to his sides to watch the boy.

It took a moment before Andrew reached out and pulled bangs out of his face. He put it behind his ear, and Neil closed his eyes, breathing, content.

“I don’t want to lose someone once again.”

“You won’t lose him.”

“I know. I was talking about someone else.”

“Your father?”

Neil cackled. “You really find anything to escape it, don’t you?”

“Escape what?”

“This. Us.”

“There’s no us,” Andrew said, but the way he was watching the boy screamed something else. He was glad Neil couldn’t see it—but perhaps could he feel it still.

“That’s what you say?” Neil said, and slowly reached out to put a hand over his cheek. Andrew’s eyes lowered and he pondered, hesitating, wanting for a short moment to push his hand away. But he didn’t. Instead he closed his eyes, letting this instant matter even though it should not.

“I can’t let you close.”

“I know. You’re not that kind of person.”

“It’s more complicated than that. Last time I let anyone close…” he couldn’t finish. He didn’t want to.

“Don’t you think we are the same?” Neil asked.

Andrew was stunned for a minute. Yes, they were.

"It doesn’t mean anything."

“Shut up,” Neil gently said. There was no smile, but Neil brushed careful fingertips on Andrew’s cheek and, somehow, this made all the sense in the world. A tenderness unspoken, felt only, imagined almost. Something so dark and precious Andrew couldn’t admit it.

He did shut up in the end, enjoying the sight of Neil’s pretty face. He realized how good-looking Neil really was, how defined and delicate his features actually were, how clear blue his eyes seemed even in the dimly lit bedroom. There were no sunglasses to hide his eyes, and when he looked into them, he almost felt their gaze. It was magic.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

"Sleep, now," he said, and turned the lights off.

They slept that way, on the made bed, each to their side. But when Andrew woke up, Neil was sleeping against him, head on his sternum going up and down with his regular breath. He watched him a moment, quietly ran a hand in Neil's hair, and then slowly got himself out bed without waking him up.

 

 

 

 

Jean was still asleep when they arrived. They sat down in the kitchen and talked about his state, about the morbid things happening to him since yesterday; he had lost a patch of hair, cried red during the night, and spat more blood than a healthy kid was supposed to. Andrew wasn't surprised. There were no particular signs of possession in people, nothing to label immediately as so; it was more of a subtle, terrible thing happening in silence until it was too late. The thing he had seen the most, though, was fever—and Jean was so feverish he wondered how he was even alive.

He was lying on his bed, sweating and mumbling things they couldn't decipher, teeth clicking in the cold. The room was heavy and hot, but all Jean could feel was the breeze all around, as though all windows had been opened in the middle of the night. It was past nine in the morning now, and a few police officers were nervously waiting at the door as Jean's mother, Andrew and Renee made their way inside.

"Jean? This is Father Andrew," the mom said, but Jean didn't even seem to hear. He was far, far away, somewhere they couldn't get him to come back.

Andrew scouted closer and crouched by his bed, looking for his gaze, but Jean had his eyes well shut. It looked like he was trying hard not to open them.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I…" Jean mumbled. "Can't control. Cold…"

"Control what?"

Jean opened his eyes and Andrew was left speechless. His eyes were fully black, those of a demon, except he was still fighting for lucidity. It was astonishing as it was terrible, and Andrew was reminded of Aaron's terrified face for a split second.

He heard Jean's mother gasp in horror in the background, and Renee instantly turn around to comfort her. She accompanied her downstairs, insisting it was better not to witness what Andrew was going to do, even though, really, Andrew had no idea what to do.

He took his crucifix and pressed it upon Jean's forehead. The gesture, as simple as it was, made Jean wince in pain and fight to push his hands away, but Andrew resisted. When he backed out again, Jean's forehead was red where the crucifix had sit.

"Good lord."

"What?" Jean mumbled, struggling to stay awake, or lucid, or alive at all.

"Nothing. I'm here to take care of you."

"It's the thing isn't it?" Jean suddenly asked when Andrew was about to get up. He reached out to grab Andrew's hand with his, trembling, and pulled him back down. "The thing Neil told me about. That's what killed Gina Murphy, right?"

Andrew stayed silent. Then nodded. There was no point in lying to him where he was now.

"It's gonna kill me," Jean said, voice hitching up in fear as he held back a sob. His fingers tightened around his and it felt like a silent prayer. "I'm gonna die, too. Am I?"

Andrew waited until he nodded again.

Jean closed his eyes and his sweaty, shaky fingers went loose around Andrew's hand. It was like Jean was suddenly giving up the fight, and in a short second, it was all it took for Andrew to change his mind.

"No."

Jean's eyes opened halfway.

"I'm not going to let that happen again. Not you," he said. And though he knew it was mostly because Neil wouldn't recover a second death, he wanted to feel like it was his choice. Like he was a good man all along—which he knew full well he was not. At least, that's what he wanted Jean to believe, for he had to believe in something at all.

"Sit up, son."

Jean executed, hardly and slowly, but then he was sitting upright, keeping himself in that position with strained trembling arms. Then all pressure released and he stilled, as though he didn't need any kind of effort anymore. When he lifted his head, he was smiling wide. A pearl of sweat rolled down his cheek and his eyes, deep black, were all but his.

"You," Andrew said, knowing it wasn't Jean no more.

"We meet again," the thing sang. "I was waiting for it, so sweetly. I have missed you."

"Are you the one who took my brother?" he asked, uncaring whether people could hear or not. He needed to know.

"No," it said. "But I can take you to him." Then it opened up a hand and waited, smiling, like an invitation. Andrew stared at the palm in disgust. "How rude of you. I thought we were long time friends, now."

"We are all but this."

"Enemies? What a poor choice, Andrew. I don't make a good deal of my enemies."

"I don't care about anything you have to say. I want its name, and now."

"Oh I know you do."

"Give it to me!" Andrew pressed, but then the thing cracked its neck to the side, almost like a rag doll hanging dead. It was a warning. "Fine. But don't do anything to the boy."

"Then what am I to do?"

"Leave," he said through gritted teeth.

Jean's body suddenly shook and shook, convulsing violently. Andrew rushed to help, but the thing grabbed his neck and pressed. It wasn't long until he couldn't breathe, scratching the hand keeping him prisoner. The demon's force was unstoppable, however, and it's only when someone grabbed his waist and pulled that he finally slipped out of his grip.

He stumbled backwards and fell on the body behind him, still too shaken up to realize. Someone grabbed his hand and pulled him upwards, and he let it happen, witnessing everything from afar as he choked for air.

"Andrew," the voice said, but it wasn't grave, or deadly; "are you okay?"

It was Neil.

"What are you doing here?"

An officer appeared at the door. "Neil you can't stay there! How did you get in?"

"That's what I would like to know?" Andrew yelled at him, but Neil wasn't moving. He was holding tightly to Andrew, as though he knew nothing could harm him as long as he did.

"I'm sorry Sir, he slipped right in."

"What a lovely reunion," the demon sang, hands intertwined to fake being moved. "Neil."

Neil looked in the direction of the voice, but it was like he could see it. He knew he couldn't, and yet, it's like he knew exactly where to look, like this had happened before, like he knew full well what it was. For someone as innocent as Neil, it was incomprehensible.

"You can't stay here, it's dangerous," Andrew said.

"So what, you're worried for me now?"

Andrew kept his silence. He didn't want to say things he'd regret. Was he worried? Probably, now that Neil was here. It hadn't been part of the plan.

"You're welcome by the way," Neil snapped. He then turned to where Jean was supposed to be and said, "leave him alone."

"Which one?" the demon smiled, all brown and black teeth.

"Both!"

"Don't you know things are never this easy, little boy?"

"You have what you want, now leave them alone."

"What do you mean?" Andrew pressed, but Neil didn't answer.

"Leave!" he screamed, so loud Andrew brought hands to his ears, and Jean's body collapsed backwards.

Andrew rushed to it before he could ask any question, and tied Jean's hands to the head of the bed.

"You can't do that," the demon spat.

"Watch me," Andrew replied.

"Oh Andrew," it sang again. "I wasn't talking to you."

Andrew searched for Neil. His gaze was lost somewhere between Jean's body and Andrew, nervously awaiting the rest.

"How did you do this?"

The demon laughed under him. "You know nothing do you?"

"Know what? Neil?" Neil's face went pale. "Neil, what aren't you telling me?"

"I know him," Neil said. "I've seen him before."

"Your mother?"

"Wrong," the demon said.

But before it could go further, Jean's body started to convulse again. Andrew first kept his distance, just to be sure, then rushed to make sure the ties at his wrists were restraining enough to assure them some sense of security for now.

Then Jean's shaky voice filled the room.

"Neil... Neil help..."

"I can't do anything!"

"What was that then?" Andrew inquired, furious. "Tell me what you're keeping from me and tell me now or I'm asking Caulfield to escort you of the house and back to Renee's. Did you follow us?"

"What difference does it make? I'm here, now."

"And you didn't sound like yourself a minute ago."

Silence stretched and filled the room again. Jean closed his eyes, trying hard to keep the thing away, but each pulsation was torture. As for Andrew, he didn't tear his eyes off Neil, wanting answers for the things he had seen and heard and done, and couldn't possibly have.

"I can't explain."

"You fucking can and you will."

"Not now!" he yelled. "Jean needs our help."

"Our help? You're just a kid."

"I'm not!"

"Then what was that?"

"I just can okay? I can do things. Let me help."

It was a plea for help and he knew it. Neil wasn't one to beg to be held, and he knew so too. That's why, perhaps, he held out a hand to grab his and lead him to the bed. He put the crucifix in his hand and pushed Neil's hand on Jean's bare torso. Jean immediately screamed in pain, but Andrew held his hand down to make sure he would keep applying the pressure onto his skin. He was burning, for sure, but it was like disinfecting something from within; twirling a solution to mix both liquids, except all it did was separate them.

Renee appeared behind them and though she wanted to question Neil's presence, she knew it was no time for it. Andrew threw up the Bible and she opened it to the marked pages and started reading.

As for Andrew, he put a palm on Jean's forehead: he was scorching hot.

"Hold tight."

It took a few hours, but finally Jean seemed asleep. He wasn't trembling anymore, though he did sweat, his silhouette printed on the mattress like the trace of what had happened. They kept him tied to be sure and his mother went to his bedside to take care of him. Meanwhile Renee made a report to the authorities and Andrew brought Neil home.

They stayed in perfect silence in Andrew's car until, finally, they were parked before Renee's house. Andrew cut the engine and waited, looking at the sunrays hitting the hood of the car.

"Are you going to tell me what happened back there?"

"No," he honestly said.

"Why not?"

"Because you'll be afraid of me if I tell you. And I don't want you to be afraid. Not of me."

He turned towards Neil, unbuckling his seatbelt. "How could I be afraid of you?" he asked, and for good measure, ran a hand through Neil's hair to get it out of his face. It was a sweet gesture he wasn't used to doing, but it seemed now he would go out of his way to make Neil the exception to everything and, though he hated that with every fiber of his being, he needed Neil to know.

"You promise you won't turn away from me?"

"I'm not one to promise anything."

Neil looked down, pensive. It obviously meant a lot. Now, though Neil wasn't one to share his secrets unasked, it seemed like it took more than a question to pull this one out of him. After a long, long minute he sighed and said, "it was after the accident." Andrew noticed he was crying in silence, tears rolling down his cheek but making no noise. "I had lost my sight and I was... I was desperate. I didn't know what to do or who to be anymore. I used to write and read stories all the time and suddenly I couldn't, and I had to learn how to do all those things... and it just. Broke me, somehow. That and Kevin's death. That's the first time I'm saying he's dead. I've always known, but...He's gone for good now. He's not coming back. But I was so miserable. The thing is... I died in this car accident, that night. I died too. Except they brought me back. And when I came back I was... I had this... thing. In me."

"What thing?"

"You know what I mean," Neil said, a little sadly so. "I wasn't quite the same and suddenly one day I was."

Andrew frowned, trying to understand what this cryptic message meant. Then Neil took his hands and brought them to his chest. He could feel each and every of his heartbeats, how hard they pulsed in his tiny chest. It was so disturbing, yet so mesmerizing, that Andrew couldn't take his eyes off their hands.

And, then—then Neil said:

"If I told you I gave my soul for an eye, would you believe me?"


End file.
